*cm4cwA;;:cai  rggaw  j&t^Bfc.'M*  **•  *  > » trrxamKomitnim  m  m 


THE  COMPLETE  POI 


(Tl 


.y 


S  LEDwrnr 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


ss  > 


^^ 


V' 


THE    COMPLETE   POEMS 
OF    FRANCIS    LEDWIDGE 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/completepoemsoffOOIedwiala 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 


THE 
COMPLETE  POEMS 

OF 

FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 

WITH    INTRODUCTIONS 

BY  LORD  DUNSANY 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1919 


^ 


v;^  TO 

\o  My  Mother 


THE   FIRST  SINGER  I    KNEW 


184i24.y 


INTRODUCTION  TO 
SONGS  OF  THE  FIELDS 

DuNSANY  Castle, 

Jime,  1914. 

IF  one  who  looked  from  a  tower  for  a  new 
star,  watching  for  years  the  same  part  of 
the  sky,  suddenly  saw  it  (quite  by  chance 
while  thinking  of  other  things),  and 
knew  it  for  the  star  for  which  he  had  hoped, 
how  many  millions  of  men  would  never  care? 
And  the  star  might  blaze  over  deserts  and 
forests  and  seas,  cheering  lost  wanderers  in 
desolate  lands,  or  guiding  dangerous  quests; 
millions  would  never  know  it. 

And  a  poet  is  no  more  than  a  star. 
If  one  has  arisen  where  I  have  so  long  looked 
for  one,  amongst  the  Irish  peasants,  it  can  be 
little  more  than  a  secret  that  I  shall  share  with 
those  who  read  this  book  because  they  care  for 
poetry. 

I  have  looked  for  a  poet  amongst  the  Irish 
peasants  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  almost 
only  amongst  them  there  was  in  daily  use  a 
7 


8  INTRODUCTION 

diction  worthy  of  poetry,  as  well  as  an  imagi- 
nation capable  of  dealing  with  the  great  and 
simple  things  that  are  a  poet's  wares.  Their 
thoughts  are  in  the  spring-time,  and  all  their 
metaphors  fresh:  in  London  no  one  makes 
metaphors  any  more,  but  daily  speech  is  strewn 
thickly  with  dead  ones  that  their  users  should 
write  upon  paper  and  give  to  their  gardeners 
to  burn. 

In  this  same  London,  two  years  ago,  where 
I  was  wasting  June,  L  received  a  letter  one  day 
from  Mr.  Ledwidge  and  a  very  old  copy-book. 
The  letter  asked  whether  there  was  any  good 
in  the  verses  that  filled  the  copy-book,  the 
produce  apparently  of  four  or  five  years.  It 
began  with  a  play  in  verse  that  no  manager 
would  dream  of,  there  were  mistakes  in  gram- 
mar, in  spelling  of  course,  and  worse  —  there 
were  such  phrases  as  "  'thwart  the  rolling 
foam,"  "  waiting  for  my  true  love  on  the  lea," 
etc.,  which  are  vulgarly  considered  to  be  the 
appurtenances  of  poetry;  but  out  of  these  and 
many  similar  errors  there  arose  continually, 
like  a  mountain  sheer  out  of  marshes,  that  easy 
fluency  of  shapely  lines  which  is  now  so  notice- 
able in  all  that  he  writes;  that  and  sudden 
glimpses  of  the  fields  that  he  seems  at  times  to 
bring  so  near  to  one  that  one  exclaims,  "  Why, 


INTRODUCTION  9 

that  is  how  Meath  looks,"  or  "  It  is  just  like 
that  along  the  Boyne  in  April,"  quite  taken  by 
surprise  by  familiar  things:  for  none  of  us 
knows,  till  the  poets  point  them  out,  how  many 
beautiful  things  are  close  about  us. 

Of  pure  poetry  there  are  two  kinds,  that 
which  mirrors  the  beauty  of  the  world  in  which 
our  bodies  are,  and  that  which  builds  the  more 
mysterious  kingdoms  where  geography  ends 
and  fairyland  begins,  with  gods  and  heroes  at 
war,  and  the  sirens  singing  still,  and  Alph  go- 
ing down  to  the  darkness  from  Xanadu.  Mr. 
Ledwidge  gives  us  the  first  kind.  When  they 
have  read  through  the  pro  founder  poets,  and 
seen  the  problem  plays,  and  studied  all  the  per- 
plexities that  puzzle  man  in  the  cities,  the  small 
circle  of  readers  that  I  predict  for  him  will  turn 
to  Ledwidge  as  to  a  mirror  reflecting  beautiful 
fields,  as  to  a  very  still  lake  rather  on  a  very 
cloudless  evening. 

There  is  scarcely  a  smile  of  Spring  or  a  sigh 
of  Autumn  that  is  not  reflected  here,  scarcely 
a  phase  of  the  large  benedictions  of  Summer; 
even  of  Winter  he  gives  us  clear  glimpses 
sometimes,  albeit  mournfully,  remembering 
Spring. 

"In  the  red  west  the  twisted  moon  is  low, 
And  on  the  bubbles  there  are  half-lit  stars. 


10  INTRODUCTION 

Music  and  twilight :  and  the  deep  blue  flow 
Of  water :  and  the  watching  fire  of  Mars. 
The  deep  fish  slipping  through  the  moonlit  bars 
Make  death  a  thing  of  sweet  dreams, — " 

What  a  Summer's  evening  is  here. 

And  this  is  a  Summer's  night  in  a  much 
longer  poem  that  I  have  not  included  in  this 
selection,  a  summer's  night  seen  by  two  lovers : 

"The  large  moon  rose  up  queenly  as  a  flower 
Charmed  by  some  Indian  pipes.    A  hare  went  by, 
A  snipe  above  them  circled  in  the  sky." 

And  elsewhere  he  writes,  giving  us  the  mood 
and  picture  of  Autumn  in  a  single  line : 

"  And  somewhere  all  the  wandering  birds  have  flown." 

With  such  simple  scenes  as  this  the  book  is 
full,  giving  nothing  at  all  to  those  that  look 
for  a  "  message,"  but  bringing  a  feeling  of 
quiet  from  gleaming  Irish  evenings,  a  book  to 
read  between  the  Strand  and  Piccadilly  Circus 
amidst  the  thunder  and  hootings. 

To  every  poet  is  given  the  revelation  of 
some  living  thing  so  intimate  that  he  speaks, 
when  he  speaks  of  it,  as  an  ambassador  speak- 
ing for  his  sovereign;  with  Homer  it  was  the 
heroes,  with  Ledwidge  it  is  the  small  birds  that 
sing,  but  in  particular  especially  the  blackbird, 
whose  cause  he  champions  against  all  other 


INTRODUCTION  II 

birds  almost  with  a  vehemence  such  as  that 

with  which  men  discuss  whether  Mr.  , 

M.P.,  or  his  friend  the  Right  Honourable 

is  really  the  greater  ruffian.  This  is  how  he 
speaks  of  the  blackbird  in  one  of  his  earliest 
poems;  he  was  sixteen  when  he  wrote  it,  in  a 
grocer's  shop  in  Dublin,  dreaming  of  Slane, 
where  he  was  born ;  and  his  dreams  turned  out 
to  be  too  strong  for  the  grocery  business,  for 
he  walked  home  one  night,  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles : 

"Above  me  smokes  the  little  town 
With  its  whitewashed  walls  and  roofs  of  brown 
And  its  octagon  spire  toned  smoothly  down 

As  the  holy  minds  within. 
And  wondrous,  impudently  sweet, 
Half  of  him  passion,  half  conceit. 
The  blackbird  calls  adown  the  street, 

Like  the  piper  of  Hamelin." 

Let  us  not  call  him  the  Burns  of  Ireland,  you 
who  may  like  this  book,  nor  even  the  Irish  John 
Clare,  though  he  is  more  like  him,  for  poets 
are  all  incomparable  (it  is  only  the  versifiers 
that  resemble  the  great  ones),  but  let  us  know 
him  by  his  own  individual  song :  he  is  the  poet 
of  the  blackbird. 

I  hope  that  not  too  many  will  be  attracted  to 
this  book  on  account  of  the  author  being  a  peas- 
ant, lest  he  come  to  be  praised  by  the  how- 


12  INTRODUCTION 

interesting!  school;  for  know  that  neither  in 
any  class,  nor  in  any  country,  nor  in  any  age, 
shall  you  predict  the  footfall  of  Pegasus,  who 
touches  the  earth  where  he  pleaseth  and  is 
bridled  by  whom  he  will. 

DUNSANY. 
June,  1914. 

Basingstoke  Camp. 
I  WROTE  this  preface  in  such  a  different  June, 
that  if  I  sent  it  out  with  no  addition  it  would 
make  the  book  appear  to  have  dropped  a  long 
while  since  out  of  another  world,  a  world  that 
none  of  us  remembers  now,  in  which  there  used 
to  be  leisure. 

Ledwidge  came  last  October  into  the  5th 
Battalion  of  the  Royal  Inniskilling  Fusiliers, 
which  is  in  one  of  the  divisions  of  Kitchener's 
first  army,  and  soon  earned  a  lance-corporal's 
stripe. 

All  his  future  books  lie  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods.     May  They  not  be  the  only  readers. 

Any  well-informed  spy  can  probably  tell  you 
our  movements,  so  of  such  things  I  say  noth- 
ing. 

DUNSANY,  Captain, 

June,  1915.  5th  R.  Inniskilling  Fusiliers. 


INTRODUCTION  TO 
SONGS  OF  PEACE 

Ebrington  Barracks, 

September,  19 16. 

IN  this  selection  that  Corporal  Ledwidge 
has  asked  me  to  make  from  his  poems 
I  have  included  "  A  Dream  of  Artemis," 
though  it  was  incomplete  and  has  been 
hurriedly  finished.  Were  it  not  included  on 
that  account  many  lines  of  extraordinary 
beauty  would  remain  unseen.  He  asked  me 
if  I  did  not  think  that  it  ended  too  abruptly, 
but  so  many  pleasant  things  ended  abruptly  in 
the  summer  of  1914,  when  this  poem  was  being 
written,  that  the  blame  for  that  may  rest  on  a 
meaner,  though  more  exalted,  head  than  that 
of  the  poet. 

In  this  poem,  as  in  the  other  one  that  has  a 
classical  theme,  "  The  Departure  of  Proser- 
pine," those  who  remember  their  classics  may 
find  faults,  but  I  read  the  "  Dream  of  Artemis  " 
merely  as  an  expression  of  things  that  the  poet 
has  seen  and  dreamed  in  Meath,  including  a 
most  beautiful  description  of  a  fox-hunt  in  the 
13 


14  INTRODUCTION 

north  of  the  county,  in  which  he  has  probably 
taken  part  on  foot ;  and  in  "  The  Departure  of 
Proserpine,"  whether  conscious  or  not,  a  crys- 
tallization in  verse  of  an  autumnal  mood  in- 
duced by  falling  leaves  and  exile  and  the  pos- 
sible nearness  of  death. 

The  second  poem  in  the  book  was  written 
about  a  little  boy  who  used  to  drive  cows  for 
some  farmer  past  the  poet's  door  very  early 
every  morning,  whistling  as  he  went,  and  who 
died  just  before  the  war.  I  think  that  its  beau- 
tiful and  spontaneous  simplicity  would  cost 
some  of  our  writers  gallons  of  midnight  oil. 

Of  the  next,  "  To  a  Distant  One,"  who  will 
not  hope  that  when,  "  Fame  and  other  little 
things  are  won  "  its  clear  and  confident  proph- 
ecy will  be  happily  fulfilled? 

Quite  perfect,  if  my  judgment  is  of  any 
value,  is  the  little  poem  on  page  171,  "In  the 
Mediterranean  —  Going  to  the  War." 

Another  beautiful  thing  is  "  Homecoming  " 
on  page  188. 

"  The  sheep  are  coming  home  in  Greece, 
Hark  the  bells  on  every  hill, 
Flock  by  flock  and  fleece  by  fleece." 

One  feels  that  the  Greeks  are  of  some  use, 
after  all,  to  have  inspired  —  with  the  help  of 
their  sheep  —  so  lovely  a  poem. 


INTRODUCTION  15 

"  The  Shadow  People  "  on  page  201  seems 
to  me  another  perfect  poem.  Written  in  Ser- 
bia and  Egypt,  it  shows  the  poet  still  looking 
steadfastly  at  those  fields,  though  so  far  distant 
then,  of  which  he  was  surely  born  to  be  the 
singer.  And  this  devotion  to  the  fields  of 
Meath  that,  in  nearly  all  his  songs,  from  such 
far  places  brings  his  spirit  home,  like  the  in- 
stinct that  has  been  given  to  the  swallows, 
seems  to  be  the  key-note  of  the  book.  For 
this  reason  I  have  named  it  Songs  of  Peace,  in 
spite  of  the  circumstances  under  which  they 
were  written. 

There  follow  poems  at  which  some  may 
wonder :  "  To  Thomas  McDonagh,"  "  The 
Blackbirds,"  "The  Wedding  Morning";  but 
rather  than  attribute  curious  sympathies  to  this 
brave  young  Irish  soldier  I  would  ask  his 
readers  to  consider  the  irresistible  attraction 
that  a  lost  cause  has  for  almost  any  Irishman. 

Once  the  swallow  instinct  appears  again  — 
in  the  poem  called  "  The  Lure  " —  and  a  long- 
ing for  the  South,  and  again  in  the  poem 
called  "  Song  " :  and  then  the  Irish  fields  con- 
tent him  again,  and  we  find  him  on  the  last 
page  but  one  in  the  book  making  a  poem  for  a 
little  place  called  Faughan,  because  he  finds 
that  its  hills  and  woods  and  streams  are  un- 


l6  INTRODUCTION 

sung.  Surely  for  this  if  there  be,  as  many 
believed,  gods  lesser  than  Those  whose  busi- 
ness is  with  destiny,  thunder  and  war,  small 
gods  that  haunt  the  groves,  seen  only  at  times 
by  few,  and  then  indistinctly  at  evening,  surely 
from  gratitude  they  will  give  him  peace. 

DUNSANY. 


INTRODUCTION  TO 
LAST  SONGS 

The  Hindenberg  Line, 
October  gth,  19 17. 

WRITING  amidst  rather  too  much 
noise  and  squalor  to  do  justice 
at  all  to  the  delicate  rustic  muse 
of  Francis  Ledwidge,  I  do  not 
like  to  delay  his  book  any  longer,  nor  to  fail  in 
a  promise  long  ago  made  to  him  to  write  this 
introduction.  He  has  gone  down  in  that  vast 
maelstrom  into  which  poets  do  well  to  adven- 
ture and  from  which  their  country  might  per- 
haps be  wise  to  withhold  them,  but  that  is  our 
Country's  affair.  He  has  left  behind  him 
verses  of  great  beauty,  simple  rural  lyrics  that 
may  be  something  of  an  anodyne  for  this 
stricken  age.  If  ever  an  age  needed  beautiful 
little  songs  our  age  needs  them;  and  I  know 
few  songs  more  peaceful  and  happy,  or  better 
suited  to  soothe  the  scars  on  the  mind  of  those 
who  have  looked  on  certain  places,  of  which 
the  prophecy  in  the  gospels  seems  no  more  than 
17 


l8  INTRODUCTION 

an  ominous  hint  when  it  speaks  of  the  abomi- 
nation of  desolation. 

He  told  me  once  that  it  was  on  one  particu- 
lar occasion,  when  walking  at  evening  through 
the  village  of  Slane  in  summer,  that  he  heard 
a  blackbird  sing.  The  notes,  he  said,  were 
very  beautiful,  and  it  is  this  blackbird  that  he 
tells  of  in  three  wonderful  lines  in  his  early 
poem  called  "  Behind  the  Closed  Eye,"  and  it 
is  this  song  perhaps  more  than  anything  else 
that  has  been  the  inspiration  of  his  brief  life. 
Dynasties  shook  and  the  earth  shook;  and  the 
war,  not  yet  described  by  any  man,  revelled 
and  wallowed  in  destruction  around  him;  and 
Francis  Ledwidge  stayed  true  to  his  inspira- 
tion, as  his  homeward  songs  will  show. 

I  had  hoped  he  would  have  seen  the  fame  he 
has  well  deserved ;  but  it  is  hard  for  a  poet  to 
live  to  see  fame  even  in  times  of  peace.  In 
these  days  it  is  harder  than  ever. 

DUNSANY. 


CONTENTS 

SONGS  OF  THE  FIELDS 

PAGS 

To  My  Best  Friend 25 

Behind  the  Closed  Eye 27 

Bound  to  the  Mast 29 

To  A  Linnet  in  a  Cage 32 

A  Twilight  in  Middle  March 34 

Spring 36 

Desire  in  Spring 38 

A  Rainy  Day  in  April 39 

A  Song  of  April 42 

The  Broken  Tryst 44 

Thoughts  at  the  Trysting  Stile 46 

Evening  in  May 49 

An  Attempt  at  a  City  Sunset 51 

Waiting 53 

The  Singer's  Muse 54 

Inamorata 56 

The  Wife  of  Llew 58 

The  Hills 59 

June 61 

In  Manchester 63 

Music  on  Water 65 

To  M.  McG 68 

In  the  Dusk 70 

The  Death  of  Ailill 72 

August       74 

The  Visitation  of  Peace 75 

Before  the  Tears 80 

God's  Remembrance 82 

An  Old  Pain 84 

The  Lost  Ones 88 

All-Hallows  Eve 90 

A  Memory 93 

A  Song 97 

A  Fear 99 

The  Coming  Poet 100 

The  Vision  on  the  Brink 102 

19 


20  CONTENTS 

PAOI 

To  Lord  Dunsany 104 

On  an  Oaten  Straw 106 

Evening  in  February 107 

The  Sister 108 

Before  the  War  of  Cooley no 

Low-Moon  Land 113 

The  Sorrow  of  Findebar 115 

On  Dream  Water 118 

The  Death  of  Sualtem 119 

The  Maid  in  Low-Moon  Land 123 

The  Death  of  Leag,  Cuchulain's  Charioteer  .  124 

The  Passing  of  Caoilte 127 

Growing  Old 129 

After  My  Last  Song 131 

SONGS  OF  PEACE 

AT  HOME 

A  Dream  of  Artemis 135 

A  Little  Boy  in  the  Morning 150 

IN  BARRACKS 

To  A  Distant  One 153 

The  Place 155 

May 157 

To  EiLisH  OF  the  Fair  Hair 159 

IN  CAMP 

Crewbrawn 163 

Evening  in  England 164 

AT  SEA 

Crocknaharna 169 

In  the  Mediterranean  —  Going  to  the  War    .  171 
The  Gardener 172 

IN  SERBIA 

Autumn  Evening  in  Serbia 177 

Nocturne 179 

Spring  and  Autumn 181 


CONTENTS  ai 

IN  GREECE 

PAGB 

The  Departure  of  Proserpine 185 

The  Home-Coming  of  the  Sheep 188 

When  Love  and  Beauty  Wander  Away  .     .     .  190 

IN  HOSPITAL  IN  EGYPT 

My  Mother 195 

Song 197 

To  One  Dead 198 

The  Resurrection 200 

The  Shadow  People 201 

IN  BARRACKS 

An  Old  Desire 205 

Thomas  McDonagh 206 

The  Wedding  Morning 207 

The  Blackbirds 209 

The  Lure 211 

Thro'  Bogac  Ban 213 

Fate 214 

Evening  Clouds 216 

Song 218 

The  Herons 219 

In  the  Shadows 220 

The  Ships  of  Arcady 221 

After 223 

To  One  Weeping 224 

A  Dream  Dance 225 

By  Faughan 226 

In  September 228 

LAST  SONGS 

To  AN  Old  Quill  of  Lord  Dunsany's  ....  231 

To  A  Sparrow 234 

Old  Clo' 236 

Youth 238 

The  Little  Children 239 

Autumn 241 

Ireland 243 

Lady  Fair 245 

At  a  Poet's  Grave 247 


22  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

After  Court  Martial 248 

A  Mother's  Song     . 249 

At  Currabwee 250 

Song-time  is  Over 252 

Una  Bawn 253 

Spring  Love 254 

Soliloquy 255 

Dawn 257 

Ceol  Sidhe 258 

The  Rushes 260 

The  Dead  Kings 262 

In  France 265 

Had  I  A  Golden  Pound 266 

Fairies 267 

In  a  Caf6 268 

Spring 269 

Pan 271 

With  Flowers 272 

The  Find 273 

A  Fairy  Hunt 274 

To  One  Who  Comes  Now  and  Then    ....  276 

The   Sylph 279 

Home .  280 

The  Lanawn  Shee 281 


SONGS  OF  THE  FIELDS 


TO  MY  BEST  FRIEND 
I  LOVE  the  wet-lipped  wind  that  stirs  the  hedge 
And  kisses  the  bent  flowers  that  drooped  for 
rain. 
That  stirs  the  poppy  on  the  sun-burned  ledge 

And  like  a  swan  dies  singing,  without  pain. 
The  golden  bees  go  buzzing  down  to  stain 

The  lilies'  frills,  and  the  blue  harebell  rings, 
And  the  sweet  blackbird  in  the  rainbow  sings. 


Deep  in  the  meadows  I  would  sing  a  song. 

The  shallow  brook  my  tuning-fork,  the  birds 
My  masters ;  and  the  boughs  they  hop  along 
as 


26  TO  MY  BEST  FRIEND 

Shall  mark  my  time:  but  there  shall  be  no 
words 
For  lurking  Echo's  mock ;  an  angel  herds 

Words  that  I  may  not  know,  within,  for  you, 
Words  for  the  faithful  meet,  the  good  and  true. 


BEHIND  THE  CLOSED  EYE 
I  WALK  the  old  frequented  ways 

That  wind  around  the  tangled  braes, 
I  live  again  the  sunny  days 

Ere  I  the  city  knew. 

And  scenes  of  old  again  are  bom. 
The  woodbine  lassoing  the  thorn, 

And  drooping  Ruth-like  in  the  corn 
The  poppies  weep  the  dew. 

Above  me  in  their  hundred  schools 

The  magpies  bend  their  young  to  rules, 

And  like  an  apron  full  of  jewels 
The  dewy  cobweb  swings. 

And  frisking  in  the  stream  below 
The  troutlets  make  the  circles  flow, 

27 


38  BEHIND  THE  CLOSED  EYE 

And  the  hungry  crane  doth  watch  them  grow 
As  a  smoker  does  his  rings. 

Above  me  smokes  the  Httle  town, 

With  its  whitewashed  walls  and  roofs  of 
brown 
And  its  octagon  spire  toned  smoothly  down 

As  the  holy  minds  within. . 

And  wondrous  impudently  sweet, 
Half  of  him  passion,  half  conceit, 

The  blackbird  calls  adown  the  street 
Like  the  piper  of  Hamelin. 

I  hear  him,  and  I  feel  the  lure 

Drawing  me  back  to  the  homely  moor, 

I'll  go  and  close  the  mountains'  door 
On  the  city's  strife  and  din. 


BOUND  TO  THE  MAST 
When  mildly  falls  the  deluge  of  the  grass, 
And  meads  begin  to  rise  like  Noah's  flood. 
And  o'er  the  hedgerows  flow,  and  onward  pass, 

Dribbling  thro'  many  a  wood ; 
When  hawthorn  trees  their  flags  of  truce  un- 
furl, 
And  dykes  are  spitting  violets  to  the  breeze ; 
When  meadow  larks  their  jocund  flight  will 

curl 
From  Earth's  to  Heaven's  leas ; 

Ah!  then  the  poet's  dreams  are  most  sublime, 
A-sail  on  seas  that  know  a  heavenly  calm. 
And  in  his  song  you  hear  the  river's  rhyme, 
29 


30  BOUND  TO  THE  MAST 

And  the  first  bleat  of  the  lamb. 
Then  when  the  summer  evenings  fall  serene, 
Unto  the  country  dance  his  songs  repair, 
And  you  may  meet  some  maids  with  angel  mien, 

Bright  eyes  and  twilight  hair. 

When  Autumn's  crayon  tones  the  green  leaves 

sere, 
And  breezes  honed  on  icebergs  hurry  past ; 
When  meadow-tides  have  ebbed  and  woods 

grow  drear. 
And  bow  before  the  blast; 
When  briars  make  semicircles  on  the  way ; 
When  blackbirds  hide  their  flutes  and  cower 

and  die; 
When  swollen  rivers  lose  themselves  and  stray 
Beneath  a  murky  sky ; 


BOUND  TO  THE  MAST  31 

Then  doth  the  poet's  voice  like  cuckoo's  break, 
And    round    his    verse    the    hungry    lapwing 

grieves. 
And  melancholy  in  his  dreary  wake 

The  funeral  of  the  leaves. 
Then  when  the  Autumn  dies  upon  the  plain, 
Wound  in  the  snow  alike  his  right  and  wrong, 
The  poet  sings, —  albeit  a  sad  strain, — 

Bound  to  the  Mast  of  Song. 


TO  A  LINNET  IN  A  CAGE 
When  Spring  is  in  the  fields  that  stained  your 
wing,     , 
And  the  blue  distance  is  alive  with  song, 
And  finny  quiets  of  the  gabbling  spring 

Rock  lilies  red  and  long, 
At  dewy  daybreak,  I  will  set  you  free 

In  ferny  turnings  of  the  woodbine  lane. 
Where  faint-voiced  echoes  leave  and  cross  in 
glee 
The  hilly  swollen  plain. 

In  draughty  houses  you  forget  your  tune, 
The  modulator  of  the  changing  hours, 
32 


TO  A  LINNET  IN  A  CAGE  33 

You  want  the  wide  air  of  the  moody  noon, 

And  the  slanting  evening  showers. 
So  I  will  loose  you,  and  your  song  shall  fall 

When  morn  is  white  upon  the  dewy  pane, 
Across  my  eyelids,  and  my  soul  recall 

From  worlds  of  sleeping  pain. 


A  TWILIGHT  IN  MIDDLE  MARCH 
Within  the  oak  a  throb  of  pigeon  wings 
Fell  silent,  and  grey  twilight  hushed  the  fold, 
And  spiders'  hammocks  swung  on  half-oped 

things 
That  shook  like  foreigners  upon  our  cold. 
A  gipsy  lit  a  fire  and  made  a  sound 
Of  moving  tins,  and  from  an  oblong  moon 
The  river  seemed  to  gush  across  the  ground 
To  the  cracked  metre  of  a  marching  tune. 

And  then  three  syllables  of  melody 

Dropped  from  a  blackbird's  flute,  and  died 

apart 
Far  in  the  dewy  dark.     No  more  but  three, 

34 


A  TWILIGHT  IN  MIDDLE  MARCH  35 

Yet  sweeter  music  never  touched  a  heart 
Neath  the  blue  domes  of  London.     Flute  and 

reed, 
Suggesting  feelings  of  the  solitude 
When  will  was  all  the  Delphi  I  would  heed, 
Lost  like  a  wind  within  a  summer  wood 
From  little  knowledge  where  great  sorrows 

brood. 


SPRING 
The  dews  drip  roses  on  the  meadows 
Where  the  meek  daisies  dot  the  sward. 
And  -^olus  whispers  through  the  shadows, 
"  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord !  " 
The  golden  news  the  skylark  waketh 
And  'thwart  the  heavens  his  flight  is  curled; 
Attend  ye  as  the  first  note  breaketh 
And  chrism  droppeth  on  the  world. 

The  velvet  dusk  still  haunts  the  stream 
Where  Pan  makes  music  light  and  gay. 
The  mountain  mist  hath  caught  a  beam 
And  slowly  weeps  itself  away. 
36 


SPRING 
The  young  leaf  bursts  its  chrysalis 
And  gem-like  hangs  upon  the  bough, 
Where  the  mad  throstle  sings  in  bliss 
O'er  earth's  rejuvenated  brow. 

ENVOI 

Slowly  fall,  O  golden  sands, 
Slowly  fall  and  let  me  sing, 
Wrapt  in  the  ecstasy  of  youth. 
The  wild  delights  of  Spring. 


37 


184243 


DESIRE  IN  SPRING 
I  LOVE  the  cradle  songs  the  mothers  sing 
In  lonely  places  when  the  twilight  drops, 
The  slow  endearing  melodies  that  bring 
Sleep  to  the  weeping  lids ;  and,  when  she  stops, 
I  love  the  roadside  birds  upon  the  tops 
Of  dusty  hedges  in  a  world  of  Spring. 

And  when  the  sunny  rain  drips  from  the  edge 
Of  midday  wind,  and  meadows  lean  one  way. 
And  a  long  whisper  passes  thro'  the  sedge, 
Beside  the  broken  water  let  me  stay, 
While  these  old  airs  upon  my  memory  play, 
And  silent  changes  colour  up  the  hedge. 
38 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN  APRIL 

When  the  clouds  shake  their  hyssops,  and  the 

rain 
Like  holy  water  falls  upon  the  plain, 
'Tis  sweet  to  gaze  upon  the  springing  grain 
And  see  your  harvest  born. 

And  sweet  the  little  breeze  of  melody. 
The  blackbird  puffs  upon  the  budding  tree, 
While  the  wild  poppy  lights  upon  the  lea 
And  blazes  'mid  the  corn. 

The  skylark  soars  the  freshening  shower  to 

hail. 
And  the  meek  daisy  holds  aloft  her  pail, 

39 


40  A  RAINY  DAY  IN  APRIL 

And  Spring  all  radiant  by  the  wayside  pale, 

Sets  up  her  rock  and  reel. 

See  how  she  weaves  her  mantle  fold  on  fold, 
Hemming  the  woods  and  carpeting  the  wold. 
Her  warp  is  of  the  green,  her  woof  the  gold, 
The  spinning  world  her  wheel. 

By'n  by  above  the  hills  a  pilgrim  moon 
Will  rise  to  light  upon  the  midnight  noon. 
But  still  she  plieth  to  the  lonesome  tune 
Of  the  brown  meadow  rail. 

No  heavy  dreams  upon  her  eyelids  weigh, 
Nor  do  her  busy  fingers  ever  stay ; 
She  knows  a  fairy  prince  is  on  the  way 
To  wake  a  sleeping  beauty. 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN  APRIL  41 

To  deck  the  pathway  that  his  feet  must  tread, 
To  fringe  the  'broidery  of  the  roses'  bed, 
To  show  the  Summer  she  but  sleeps, —  not 

dead. 
This  is  her  fixed  duty. 

ENVOI 

To-day  while  leaving  my  dear  home  behind, 
My  eyes  with  salty  homesick  teardrops  blind, 
The  rain  fell  on  me  sorrowful  and  kind 
Like  angels'  tears  of  pity. 

Twas  then  I  heard  the  small  birds'  melodies. 

And  saw  the  poppies'  bonfire  on  the  leas. 

As  Spring  came  whispering  thro'  the  leafing 

trees 
Giving  to  me  my  ditty. 


A  SONG  OF  APRIL 
The  censer  of  the  eglantine  was  moved 
By  little  lane  winds,  and  the  watching  faces 
Of  garden  flowerets,  which  of  old  she  loved. 
Peep  shyly  outward  from  their  silent  places. 
But   when   the   sun   arose   the   flowers   grew 

bolder, 
And  she  will  be  in  white,  I  thought,  and  she 
Will  have  a  cuckoo  on  her  either  shoulder. 
And  woodbine  twines  and  fragrant  wings  of 

pea. 

And  I  will  meet  her  on  the  hills  of  South, 
And  I  will  lead  her  to  a  northern  water, 
42 


A  SONG  OF  APRIL  43 

My  wild  one,  the  sweet  beautiful  uncouth, 
The  eldest  maiden  of  the  Winter's  daughter. 
And  down  the  rainbows  of  her  noon  shall  slide 
Lark  music,  and  the  little  sunbeam  people, 
And  nomad  wings  shall  fill  the  river  side, 
And  ground  winds  rocking  in  the  lily's  steeple. 


THE  BROKEN  TRYST 
The  dropping  words  of  larks,  the  sweetest 

tongue 
That  sings  between  the  dusks,  tell  all  of  you ; 
The  bursting  white  of  Peace  is  all  along 
Wing- ways,  and  pearly  droppings  of  the  dew 
Emberyl  the  cobwebs'  greyness,  and  the  blue 
Of  hiding  violets,  watching  for  your  face. 
Listen  for  you  in  every  dusky  place. 

You  will  not  answer  when  I  call  your  name, 
But  in  the  fog  of  blossom  do  you  hide 
To  change  my  doubts  into  a  red- faced  shame 
By'n  by  when  you  are  laughing  by  my  side  ? 
44 


THE  BROKEN  TRYST  45 

Or  will  you  never  come,  or  have  you  died, 
And  I  in  anguish  have  forgotten  all  ? 
And  shall  the  world  now  end  and  the  heavens 
fall? 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  TRYSTING  STILE 
Come,  May,  and  hang  a  white  flag  on  each 

thorn. 
Make  truce  with*  earth  and  heaven ;  the  April 

child 
Now  hides  her  sulky  face  deep  in  the  mom 
Of  your  new  flowers  by  the  water  wild 
And  in  the  ripples  of  the  rising  grass, 
And  rushes  bent  to  let  the  south  wind  pass 
On  with  her  tumult  of  swift  nomad  wings, 
And  broken  domes  of  downy  dandelion. 
Only  in  spasms  now  the  blackbird  sings. 
The  hour  is  all  a-dream. 

Nets  of  woodbine 
Throw  woven  shadows  over  dreaming  flowers, 
46 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  TRYSTING  STILE  47 

And  dreaming,  a  bee-luring  lily  bends 
Its  tender  bell  where  blue  dyke-water  cowers 
Thro'  briars,  and  folded  ferns,  and  gripping 

ends 
Of  wild  convolvulus. 

The  lark's  sky-way 
Is  desolate. 

I  watch  an  apple-spray 
Beckon  across  a  wall  as  if  it  knew 
I  wait  the  calling  of  the  orchard  maid. 

Inly  I  feel  that  she  will  come  in  blue, 

With  yellow  on  her  hair,  and  two  curls  strayed 

Out  of  her  comb's  loose  stocks,  and  I  shall 

steal 
Behind  and  lay  my  hands  upon  her  eyes, 
"  Look  not,  but  be  my  Psyche !  " 


48         THOUGHTS  AT  THE  TRYSTING  STILE 

And  her  peal 
Of  laughter  will  ring  far,  and  as  she  tries 
For  freedom  I  will  call  her  names  of  flowers 
That  climb  up  walls;  then  thro'  the  twilight 

hours 
We'll  talk  about  the  loves  of  ancient  queens, 
And  kisses  like  wasp-honey,  false  and  sweet, 
And  how  we  are  entangled  in  love's  snares 
Like  wind-looped  flowers. 


EVENING  IN  MAY 
There  is  nought  tragic  here,  tho'  night  upHfts 
A    narrow    curtain    where    the    footHghts 
burned, 
But  one  long  act  where  Love  each  bold  heart 
sifts 
And  blushes  in  the  dark,  but  has  not  spurned 
The  strong  resolve  of  noon.     The  maiden's 
head 
Is  brown  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  youth, 
Hearts  are  exchanged,  long  pent  up  words  are 
said, 
Blushes  burn  out  at  the  long  tale  of  truth. 

The  blackbird  blows  his  yellow  flute  so  strong. 

And  rolls  away  the  notes  in  careless  glee, 

49 


so  EVENING  IN  MAY 

It  breaks  the  rhythm  of  the  thrushes'  song, 

And  puts  red  shame  upon  his  rivalry. 
The  yellowhammers  on  the  roof  tiles  beat 

Sweet  little  dulcimers  to  broken  time, 
And  here  the  robin  with  a  heart  replete 

Has  all  in  one  short  plagiarised  rhyme. 


AN  ATTEMPT  AT  A  CITY  SUNSET 
(to  j.  k.  q.) 
There  was  a  quiet  glory  in  the  sky 
When  thro'  the  gables  sank  the  large  red  sun, 
And  toppling  mounts  of  rugged  cloud  went  by 
Heavy  with  whiteness,  and  the  moon  had  won 
Her  way  above  the  woods,  with  her  small  star 
Behind  her  like  the  cuckoo's  little  mother.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  hour  when  visions  from  some  far 
Strange  Eastern  dreams  like  twilight  bats  take 

wing 
Out  of  the  ruin  of  memories. 

O  brother 
Of  high  song,  wand'ring  where  the  Muses  fling 

SI 


52  AN  ATTEMPT  AT  A  CITY  SUNSET 

Rich  gifts  as  prodigal  as  winter  rain, 
Like  stepping-stones  within  a  swollen  river 
The  hidden  words  are  sounding  in  my  brain, 
Too  wild  for  taming ;  and  I  must  for  ever 
Think  of  the  hills  upon  the  wilderness, 
And  leave  the  city  sunset  to  your  song. 
For  there  I  am  a  stranger  like  the  trees 
That  sigh  upon  the  traffic  all  day  long. 


WAITING 
A  STRANGE  old  woman  on  the  wayside  sate, 
Looked   far  away  and  shook  her  head  and 

sighed. 
And  when  anon,  close  by,  a  rusty  gate 
Loud  on  the  warm  winds  cried. 
She  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  said,  "  You're  late." 
Then  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

And  evening  found  her  thus,  and  night  in  state 
Walked  thro'  the  starlight,  and  a  heavy  tide 
Followed  the  yellow  moon  around  her  wait, 
And  morning  walked  in  wide. 
She  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  said,  "  You're  late." 
Then  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 
53 


THE  SINGER'S  MUSE 
I  BROUGHT  in  these  to  make  her  kitchen  sweet, 
Haw  blossoms  and  the  roses  of  the  lane. 
Her  heart  seemed  in  her  eyes  so  wild  they  beat 
With  welcome  for  the  boughs  of  Spring  again. 
She  never  heard  of  Babylon  or  Troy, 
She  read  no  book,  but  once  saw  Dublin  town ; 
Yet  she  made  a  poet  of  her  servant  boy 

And  from  Parnassus  earned  the  laurel  crown. 

\ 

H  Fame,  the  Gorgon,  turns  me  into  stone 
Upon  some  city  square,  let  someone  place 
Thorn  blossoms  and  lane  roses  newly  blown 
Beside  my  feet,  and  underneath  them  trace : 
54 


THE  SINGER'S  MUSE  55 

"  His  heart  was  like  a  bookful  of  girls'  song, 
With  little  loves  and  mighty  Care's  alloy. 
These  did  he  bring  his  muse,  and  suffered  long, 
Her  bashful  singer  and  her  servant  boy." 


INAMORATA 
The  bees  were  holding  levees  in  the  flowers, 
Do  you  remember  how  each  puff  of  wind 
Made  every  wing  a  hum?     My  hand  in  yours 
Was  listening  to  your  heart,  but  now 
The  glory  is  all  faded,  and  I  find 
No  more  the  olden  mystery  of  the  hours 
When  you  were  lovely  and  our  hearts  would 

bow 
Each  to  the  will  of  each,  but  one  bright  day 
Is  stretching  like  an  isthmus  in  a  bay 
From  the  glad  years  that  I  have  left  behind. 

I  look  across  the  edge  of  things  that  were 
And  you  are  lovely  in  the  April  ways, 
S6 


INAMORATA  57 

Holy  and  mute,  the  sigh  of  my  despair.  .  .  . 

I  hear  once  more  the  linnets'  April  tune 

Beyond  the  rainbow's  warp,  as  in  the  days 

You  brought  me  facefuls  of  your  smiles  to 

share 
Some  of  your  new-found  wonders.  .  .  .  Oh 

when  soon 
I'm  wandering  the  wide  seas  for  other  lands, 
Sometimes  remember  me  with  folded  hands, 
And  keep  me  happy  in  your  pious  prayer. 


THE  WIFE  OF  LLEW 
And  Gwydion   said   to   Math,   when   it   was 

Spring: 
"  Come  now  and  let  us  make  a  wife  for  Llew." 
And  so  they  broke  broad  boughs  yet  moist 

with  dew, 
And  in  a  shadow  made  a  magic  ring : 
They  took  the  violet  and  the  meadow-sweet 
To  form  her  pretty  face,  and  for  her  feet 
They  built  a  mound  of  daisies  on  a  wing, 
And  for  her  voice  they  made  a  linnet  sing 
In  the  wide  poppy  blowing  for  her  mouth. 
And  over  all  they  chanted  twenty  hours. 
And  Llew  came  singing  from  the  azure  south 
And  bore  away  his  wife  of  birds  and  flowers. 


THE  HILLS 
The  hills  are  crying  from  the  fields  to  me, 
And  calling  me  with  music  from  a  choir 
Of  waters  in  their  woods  where  I  can  see 
The  bloom  unfolded  on  the  whins  like  fire. 
And,  as  the  evening  moon  climbs  ever  higher 
And  blots  away  the  shadows  from  the  slope, 
They  cry  to  me  like  things  devoid  of  hope. 

Pigeons  are  home.     Day  droops.     The  fields 

are  cold. 
Now  a  slow  wind  comes  labouring  up  the  sky 
With  a  small  cloud  long  steeped  in  sunset  gold, 
Like  Jason  with  the  precious  fleece  anigh 
The  harbour  of  lolcos.     Day's  bright  eye 
59 


6o  THE  HILLS 

Is  filmed  with  the  twihght,  and  the  rill 

Shines  like  a  scimitar  upon  the  hill. 

And  moonbeams  drooping  thro'  the  coloured 

wood 
Are  full  of  little  people  winged  white. 
I'll  wander  thro'  the  moon-pale  solitude 
That  calls  across  the  intervening  night 
With  river  voices  at  their  utmost  height, 
Sweet  as  rain-water  in  the  blackbird's  flute 
That  strikes  the  world  in  admiration  mute. 


JUNE 
Broom  out  the  floor  now,  lay  the  fender  by, 
And  plant  this  bee^sucked  bough  of  woodbine 

there, 
And  let  the  window  down.     The  butterfly 
Floats  in  upon  the  sunbeam,  and  the  fair 
Tanned  face  of  June,  the  nomad  gipsy,  laughs 
Above  her  widespread  wares,  the  while  she 

tells 
The  farmers'  fortunes  in  the  fields,  and  quaffs 
The  water  from  the  spider-peopled  wells. 

The  hedges  are  all  drowned  in  green  grass  seas, 
And  bobbing  poppies  flare  like  Elmor's  light, 
6i 


62  JUNE 

While  siren-like  the  pollen-stained  bees 
Drone  in  the  clover  depths.     And  up  the  height 
The  cuckoo's  voice  is  hoarse  and  broke  with 

joy. 
And  on  the  lowland  crops  the  crows  make  raid, 
Nor  fear  the  clappers  of  the  farmer's  boy, 
Who  sleeps,  like  drunken  Noah,  in  the  shade. 

And  loop  this  red  rose  in  that  hazel  ring 
That  snares  your  little  ear,  for  June  is  short 
And  we  must  joy  in  it  and  dance  and  sing. 
And  from  her  bounty  draw  her  rosy  worth. 
Ay !  soon  the  swallows  will  be  flying  south, 
The  wind  wheel  north  to  gather  in  the  snow. 
Even  the  roses  spilt  on  youth's  red  mouth 
Will  soon  blow  down  the  road  all  roses  go. 


IN  MANCHESTER 
There  is  a  noise  of  feet  that  move  in  sin 
Under  the  side- faced  moon  here  where  I  stray, 
Want  by  me  like  a  Nemesis.     The  din 
Of  noon  is  in  my  ears,  but  far  away 
My  thoughts  are,  where  Peace  shuts  the  black- 
birds' wings 
And  it  is  cherry  time  by  all  the  springs. 

And  this  same  moon  floats  like  a  trail  of  fire 
Down  the  long  Boyne,  and  darts  white  arrows 

thro' 
The  mill  wood;  her  white  skirt  is  on  the  weir, 
She  walks  thro'  crystal  mazes  of  the  dew, 
63 


64  IN  MANCHESTER 

And  rests  awhile  upon  the  dewy  slope 
Where  I  will  hope  again  the  old,  old  hope. 

With  wandering  we  are  worn  my  muse  and  I, 
And,  if  I  sing,  my  song  knows  nought  of  mirth. 
I  often  think  my  soul  is  an  old  lie 
In  sackcloth,  it  repents  so  much  of  birth. 
But  I  will  build  it  yet  a  cloister  home 
Near  the  peace  of  lakes  when  I  have  ceased  to 
roam. 


MUSIC  ON  WATER 
Where  does  Remembrance  weep  when  we 

forget  ? 
From  whither  brings  she  back  an  old  delight  ? 
Why  do  we  weep  that  once  we  laughed?  and 

yet 
Why  are  we  sad  that  once  our  hearts  were 

light? 
I   sometimes   think   the  days   that   we   made 

bright 
Are  damned  within  us,  and  we  hear  them  yell, 
Deep  in  the  solitude  of  that  wide  hell, 
Because  we  welcome  in  some  new  regret. 
I  will  remember  with  sad  heart  next  year 
65 


66  MUSIC  ON  WATER 

This  music  and  this  water,  but  to-day- 
Let  me  be  part  of  all  this  joy.     My  ear 
Caught  far-off  music  which  I  bid  away. 
The  light  of  one  fair  face  that  fain  would  stay 
Upon  the  heart's  broad  canvas,  as  the  Face 
On  Mary's  towel,  lighting  up  the  place. 
Too  sad  for  joy,  too  happy  for  a  tear. 

Methinks  I  see  the  music  like  a  light 
Low  on  the  bobbing  water,  and  the  fields 
Yellow  and  brown  alternate  on  the  height. 
Hanging  in  silence  there  like  battered  shields. 
Lean  forward  heavy  with  their  coloured  yields 
As  if  they  paid  it  homage ;  and  the  strains. 
Prisoners  of  Echo,  up  the  sunburnt  plains 
Fade  on  the  cross-cut  to  a  future  night. 
In  the  red  West  the  twisted  moon  is  low, 


MUSIC  ON  WATER  67 

And  on  the  bubbles  there  are  half-Ht  stars : 
Music  and  twilight :  and  the  deep  blue  flow 
Of  water :  and  the  watching  fire  of  Mars : 
The  deep  fish  slipping  thro'  the  moonlit  bars 
Make  Death  a  thing  of  sweet  dreams,  life  a 

mock. 
And  the  soul  patient  by  the  heart's  loud  clock 
Watches  the  time,  and  thinks  it  wondrous  slow. 


TO  M.  McG. 
(who  came  one  day  when  we  were  all 
gloomy    anp    cheered    us    with     sad 
music) 

We  were  all  sad  and  could  not  weep, 
Because  our  sorrow  had  not  tears : 
You  came  a  silent  thing  like  Sleep, 
And  stole  away  our  fears. 

Old  memories  knocking  at  each  heart 
Troubled  us  with  the  world's  great  lie : 
You  sat  a  little  way  apart 
And  made  a  fiddle  cry. 
68 


TO  M.  McG.  69 

And  April  with  her  sunny  showers 
Came  laughing  up  the  fields  again : 
White  wings  went  flashing  thro'  the  hours 
So  lately  full  of  pain. 

And  rivers  full  of  little  lights 
Came  down  the  fields  of  waving  green: 
Our  immemorial  delights 
Stole  in  on  us  unseen. 

For  this  may  Good  Luck  let  you  loose 
Upon  her  treasures  many  years, 
And  Peace  unfurl  her  flag  of  truce 
To  any  threat'ning  fears. 


IN  THE  DUSK 

Day  hangs  its  light  between  two  dusks,  my 

heart, 
Always  beyond  the  dark  there  is  the  blue. 
Sometime  we'll  leave  the  dark,  myself  and  you, 
And  revel  in  the  light  for  evermore. 
But  the  deep  pain  of  you  is  aching  smart, 
And  a  long  calling  weighs  upon  you  sore. 


Day  hangs  its  light  between  two  dusks,  and 

song 
Is  there  at  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
70 


IN  THE  DUSK  71 

You,  in  the  singing  dusk,  how  could  you  wend 
The  songless  way  Contentment  fleetly  wings? 
But  in  the  dark  your  beauty  shall  be  strong, 
Tho'  only  one  should  listen  how  it  sings. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AILILL 
When  there  was  heard  no  more  the  war's  loud 

sound, 
And  only  the  rough  corn-crake  filled  the  hours, 
And  hill  winds  in  the  furze  and  drowsy  flowers, 
Maeve  in  her  chamber  with  her  white  head 

bowed 
On  Ailill's  heart  was  sobbing :     "  I  have  found 
The  way  to  love  you  now,"  she  said,  and  he 
Winked  an  old  tear  away  and  said :     "  The 

proud 
Unyielding  heart  loves  never."     And  then  she: 
"  I  love  you  now,  tho'  once  when  we  were 

young 

7a 


THE  DEATH  OF  AILILL  73 

We  walked  apart  like  two  who  were  estranged 
Because  I  loved  you  not,  now  all  is  changed." 
And  he  who  loved  her  always  called  her  name 
And  said :     "  You  do  not  love  me,  'tis  your 

tongue 
Talks  in  the  dusk ;  you  love  the  blazing  gold 
Won  in  the  battles,  and  the  soldier's  fame. 
You  love  the  stories  that  are  often  told 
By  poets  in  the  hall."     Then  Maeve  arose 
And    sought    her    daughter    Findebar :     "  O, 

child. 
Go  tell  your  father  that  my  love  went  wild 
With  all  my  wars  in  youth,  and  say  that  now 
I  love  him  stronger  than  I  hate  my  foes.  ..." 
And  Findebar  unto  her  father  sped 
And  touched  him  gently  on  the  rugged  brow. 
And  knew  by  the  cold  touch  that  he  was  dead. 


AUGUST 
She'll  come  at  dusky  first  of  day, 
White  over  yellow  harvest's  song. 
Upon  her  dewy  rainbow  way 
She  shall  be  beautiful  and  strong. 
The  lidless  eye  of  noon  shall  spray 
Tan  on  her  ankles  in  the  hay, 
Shall  kiss  her  brown  the  whole  day  long. 

I'll  know  her  in  the  windrows,  tall 
Above  the  crickets  of  the  hay. 
I'll  know  her  when  her  odd  eyes  fall. 
One  May-blue,  one  November-grey. 
I'll  watch  her  from  the  red  bam  wall 
Take  down  her  rusty  scythe,  and  call, 
And  I  will  follow  her  away. 
74 


"the  visitation  of  peace 

I  CLOSED  the  book  of  verse  where  Sorrow  wept 
Above  Love's  broken  fane  where  Hope  once 

prayed, 
And  thought  of  old  trysts  broken  and  trysts 

kept 
Only  to  chide  my  fondness.     Then  I  strayed 
Down  a  green  coil  of  lanes  where  murmuring 

wings 
Moved  up  and  down  like  lights  upon  the  sea, 
Searching  for  calm  amid  untroubled  things 
Of  wood  and  water.     The  industrious  bee 
Sang  in  his  barn  within  the  hollow  beech, 
And  in  a  distant  haggard  a  loud  mill 
75 


76  THE  VISITATION  OF  PEACE 

Hummed  like  a  war  of  hives.     A  whispered 

speech 
Of  corn  and  wind  was  on  the  yellow  hill, 
And  tattered  scarecrows  nodded  their  assent 
And  waved  their  arms  like  orators.    The  brown 
Nude  beauty  of  the  Autumn  sweetly  bent 
Over  the  woods,  across  the  little  town. 

I  sat  in  a  retreating  shade  beside 

The  river,  where  it  fell  across  a  weir 

Like  a  white  mane,  and  in  a  flourish  wide 

Roars  by  an  island  field  and  thro'  a  tier 

Of  leaning  sallies,  like  an  avenue 

When  the  moon's  flambeau  hunts  the  shadows 

out 
And  strikes  the  borders  white  across  the  dew. 
Where  little  ringlets  ended,  the  fleet  trout 


THE  VISITATION  OF  PEACE  'jy 

Fed  on  the  water  moths.     A  marsh  hen  crossed 
On  flying  wings  and  swimming  feet  to  where 
Her  mate  was  in  the  rushes  forest,  tossed 
On  the  heaving  dusk  like  swallows  in  the  air. 

Beyond  the  river  a  walled  rood  of  graves 
Hung  dead  with  all  its  hemlock  wan  and  sere, 
Save  where  the  wall  was  broken  and  long 

waves 
Of  yellow  grass  flowed  outward  like  a  weir, 
As  if  the  dead  were  striving  for  more  room 
And  their  old  places  in  the  scheme  of  things; 
For   sometimes   the   thought   comes   that   the 

brown  tomb 
Is  not  the  end  of  all  our  labourings, 
But  we  are  born  once  more  of  wind  and  rain, 
To  sow  the  world  with  harvest  young  and 

strong, 


78  THE  VISITATION  OF  PEACE 

That  men  may  live  by  men  'til  the  stars  wane, 

And  still  sweet  music  fill  the  blackbird's  song. 

But  O  for  truths  about  the  soul  denied. 
Shall  I  meet  Keats  in  some  wild  isle  of  balm, 
Dreaming  beside  a  tarn  where  green  and  wide 
Boughs  of  sweet  cinnamon  protect  the  calm 
Of  the  dark  water?     And  together  walk 
Thro'  hills  with  dimples  full  of  water  where 
White  angels  rest,  and  all  the  dead  years  talk 
About  the  changes  of  the  earth  ?     Despair 
Sometimes  takes  hold  of  me  but  yet  I  hope 
To  hope  the  old  hope  in  the  better  times 
When  I  am  free  to  cast  aside  the  rope 
That  binds  me  to  all  sadness  'til  my  rhymes 
Cry  like  lost  birds.     But  O,  if  I  should  die 
Ere  this  millennium,  and  my  hands  be  crossed 


THE  VISITATION  OF  PEACE  79 

Under  the  flowers  I  loved,  the  passers-by 
Shall  scowl  at  me  as  one  whose  soul  is  lost. 

But  a  soft  peace  came  to  me  when  the  West 
Shut  its  red  door  and  a  thin  streak  of  moon 
Was  twisted  on  the  twilight's  dusky  breast. 
It  wrapped  me  up  as  sometimes  a  sweet  tune 
Heard   for  the   first   time   wraps   the   scenes 

around, 
That  we  may  have  their  memories  when  some 

hand 
Strikes  it  in  other  times  and  hopes  unbound 
Rising  see  clear  the  everlasting  land. 


BEFORE  THE  TEARS 
You  looked  as  sad  as  an  eclipsed  moon 
Above  the  sheaves  of  harvest,  and  there  lay 
A  light  lisp  on  your  tongue,  and  very  soon 
The  petals  of  your  deep  blush  fell  away; 
White  smiles  that  come  with  an  uneasy  grace 
From  inner  sorrow  crossed  your  forehead  fair, 
When  the  wind  passing  took  your  scattered 

hair 
And  flung  it  like  a  brown  shower  in  my  face. 

Tear- fringed  winds  that  fill  the  heart's  low 

sighs 
And  never  break  upon  the  bosom's  pain, 
80 


BEFORE  THE  TEARS  8l 

But  blow  unto  the  windows  of  the  eyes 
Their  misty  promises  of  silver  rain, 
Around  your  loud  heart  ever  rose  and  fell. 
I  thought  'twere  better  that  the  tears  should 

come 
And  strike  your  every  feeling  wholly  numb, 
So  thrust  my  hand  in  yours  and  shook  fare- 
well. 


GOD'S  REMEMBRANCE 
There  came  a  whisper  from  the  night  to  me 
Like  music  of  the  sea,  a  mighty  breath 
From  out  the  valley's  dewy  mouth,  and  Death 
Shook  his  lean  bones,  and  every  coloured  tree 
Wept  in  the  fog  of  morning.     From  the  town 
Of  nests  among  the  branches  one  old  crow 
With  gaps  upon  his  wings  flew  far  away. 
And,  thinking  of  the  golden  summer  glow, 
I  heard  a  blackbird  whistle  half  his  lay 
Among  the  spinning  leaves  that  slanted  down. 

And  I  who  am  a  thought  of  God's  now  long 

Forgotten  in  His  Mind,  and  desolate 
82 


GOD'S  REMEMBRANCE  83 

With  other  dreams  long  over,  as  a  gate 
Singing  upon  the  wind  the  anvil  song, 
Sang  of  the  Spring  when  first  He  dreamt  of  me 
In    that    old   town    all    hills    and    signs    that 

creak :  — 
And  He  remembered  me  as  something  far 
In  old  imaginations,  something  weak 
With  distance,  like  a  little  sparking  star 
Drowned  in  the  lavender  of  evening  sea. 


AN  OLD  PAIN 
What  old,  old  pain  is  this  that  bleeds  anew  ? 
What  old  and  wandering  dream  forgotten  long 
Hobbles  back  to  my  mind?     With  faces  two, 
Like  Janus  of  old  Rome,  I  look  about, 
And  yet  discover  not  what  ancient  wrong 
Lies  unrequited  still.     No  speck  of  doubt 
Upon  to-morrow's  promise.     Yet  a  pain 
Of  some  dumb  thing  is  on  me,  and  I  feel 
How  men  go  mad,  how  faculties  do  reel 
When  these  old  querns  turn  round  within  the 
brain. 

'Tis  something  to  have  known  one  day  of  joy, 
Now  to  remember  when  the  heart  is  low, 

a* 


AN  OLD  PAIN  85 

An  antidote  of  thought  that  will  destroy 
The  asp  bite  of  Regret.     Deep  will  I  drink 
By'n  by  the  purple  cups  that  overflow, 
And  fill  the  shattered  heart's  urn  to  the  brink. 
But  some  are  dead  who  laughed !     Some  scat- 
tered are 
Around  the  sultry  breadth  of  foreign  zones. 
You,  with  the  warm  clay  wrapt  about  your 

bones, 
Are  nearer  to  me  than  the  live  afar. 


My  heart  has  grown  as  dry  as  an  old  crust, 
Deep  in  book  lumber  and  moth-eaten  wood. 
So  long  it  has  forgot  the  old  love  lust, 
So  long  forgot  the  thing  that  made  youth  dear, 
Two  blue  love  lamps,  a  heart  exceeding  good. 


86  AN  OLD  PAIN 

And  how,  when  first  I  heard  that  voice  ring 

clear 
Among  the  sering  hedges  of  the  plain, 
I  knew  not  which  from  which  beyond  the  corn. 
The  laughter  by  the  callow  twisted  thorn, 
The  jay-thrush  whistling  in  the  haws  for  rain. 

I  hold  the  mind  is  the  imprisoned  soul, 
And  all  our  aspirations  are  its  own 
Struggles  and  strivings  for  a  golden  goal. 
That  wear  us  out  like  snow  men  at  the  thaw. 
And  we  shall  make  our  Heaven  where  we  have 

sown 
Our  purple  longings.     Oh !  can  the  loved  dead 

draw 
Anear  us  when  we  moan,  or  watching  wait 
Our  coming  in  the  woods  where  first  we  met. 


AN  OLD  PAIN  87 

The  dead  leaves  falling  on  their  wild  hair  wet, 
Their  hands  upon  the  fastenings  of  the  gate? 

This  is  the  old,  old  pain  come  home  once  more, 
Bent  down  with  answers  wild  and  very  lame 
For  all  my  delving  in  old  dog-eared  lore 
That  drove  the  Sages  mad.     And  boots  the 

world 
Aught  for  their  wisdom  ?     I  have  asked  them, 

tame, 
And  watched  the  Earth  by  its  own  self  be 

hurled 
Atom  by  atom  into  nothingness, 
Loll  out  of  the  deep  canyons,  drops  of  fire, 
And  kindle  on  the  hills  its  funeral  pyre, 
And  all  we  learn  but  shows  we  know  the  less. 


THE  LOST  ONES 
Somewhere  is  music  from  the  linnets'  bills, 
And   thro'   the   sunny   flowers   the   bee-wings 

drone, 
And  white  bells  of  convolvulus  on  hills 
Of  quiet  May  make  silent  ringing,  blown 
Hither  and  thither  by  the  wind  of  showers, 
And  somewhere  all  the  wandering  birds  have 

flown; 
And  the  brown  breath  of  Autumn  chills  the 

flowers. 

But  where  are  all  the  loves  of  long  ago  ? 
Oh,  little  twilight  ship  blown  up  the  tide, 
88 


THE  LOST  ONES  89 

Where  are  the  faces  laughing  in  the  glow 
Of  morning  years,  the  lost  ones  scattered  wide? 
Give  me  your  hand,  Oh  brother,  let  us  go 
Crying  about  the  dark  for  those  who  died. 


ALL-HALLOWS  EVE 
The  dreadful  hour  is  sighing  for  a  moon 

To  light  old  lovers  to  the  place  of  tryst, 
And  old  footsteps  from  blessed  acres  soon 

On  old  known  pathways  will  be  lightly  prest ; 
And  winds  that  went  to  eavesdrop  since  the 
noon, 

Kinking  ^  at  some  old  tale  told  sweetly  brief, 

Will  give  a  cowslick  ^  to  the  yarrow  leaf,^ 
And  sling  the  round  nut  from  the  hazel  down. 

1  Provincially  a  kind  of  laughter. 

2  A  curl  of  hair  thrown  back  from  the  forehead :  used 
metaphorically  here,  and  itself  a  metaphor  taken  from 
the  curl  of  a  cow's  tongue. 

8  Maidens  on  Hallows  Eve  pull  leaves  of  yarrow,  and, 
sasring  over  them  certain  words,  put  them  under  their 
pillows  and  so  dream  of  their  true-loves. 

90 


ALL-HALLOWS  EVE  91 

And  there  will  be  old  yam  balls,^  and  old  spells 

In  broken  lime-kilns,  and  old  eyes  will  peer 
For  constant  lovers  in  old  spidery  wells,^ 

And  old  embraces  will  grow  newly  dear. 
And  some  may  meet  old  lovers  in  old  dells, 

And  some   in  doors  ajar  in  towns  light- 
lorn  ;  — 
But  two  will  meet  beneath  a  gnarly  thorn 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  windy  fells. 

Then  when  the  night  slopes  home  and  white- 
faced  day 
Yawns  in  the  east  there  will  be  sad  fare- 
wells ; 

1  They  also  throw  balls  of  yarn  (which  must  be  black) 
over  their  left  shoulders  into  old  lime-kilns,  holding  one 
end  and  then  winding  it  in  till  they  feel  it  somehow 
caught,  and  expect  to  see  in  the  darkness  the  face  of 
their  lover. 

2  Also  they  look  for  his  face  in  old  wells. 


92  ALL-HALLOWS  EVE 

And  many  feet  will  tap  a  lonely  way 

Back  to  the  comfort  of  their  chilly  cells, 

And  eyes  will  backward  turn  and  long  to  stay 
Where  love  first  found  them  in  the  clover 

bloom  — 
But  one  will  never  seek  the  lonely  tomb, 

And  two  will  linger  at  the  tryst  alway. 


A  MEMORY 
i^ow  sounds  of  night  that  drip  upon  the  ear, 
The  plumed  lapwing's  cry,  the  curlew's  call, 
Clear  in  the  far  dark  heard,  a  sound  as  drear 
As  raindrops  pelted  from  a  nodding  rush 
To  give  a  white  wink  once  and  broken  fall 
Into  a  deep  dark  pool :  they  pain  the  hush, 
As  if  the  fiery  meteor's  slanting  lance 
Had  found  their  empty  craws:  they  fill  with 

sound 
The  silence,  with  the  merry  round. 
The  sounding  mazes  of  a  last  year's  dance. 


93 


94  A  MEMORY 

I  thought  to  watch  the  stars  come  spark  by 

spark 
Out  on  the  muffled  night,  and  watch  the  moon 
Go  round  the  full,  and  turn  upon  the  dark, 
And  sharpen  towards  the  new,  and  waiting 

watch 
The  grand  Kaleidoscope  of  midnight  noon 
Change  colours  on  the  dew,  where  high  hills 

notch 
The  low  and  moony  sky.     But  who  dare  cast 
One  brief  hour's  horoscope,  whose  tuned  ear 
Makes  every  sound  the  music  of  last  year? 
Whose  hopes  are  built  up  in  the  door  of  Past  ? 

No,  not  more  silent  does  the  spider  stitch 
A  cobweb  on  the  fern,  nor  fogdrops  fall 
On  sheaves  of  harvest  when  the  night  is  rich 


A  MEMORY  95 

With  moonbeams,  than  the  spirits  of  delight 
Walk  the  dark  passages  of  Memory's  hall. 
We  feel  them  not,  but  in  the  wastes  of  night 
We  hear  their  low-voiced  mediums,  and  we  rise 
To  wrestle  old  Regrets,  to  see  old  faces, 
To  meet  and  part  in  old  tryst-trodden  places 
With  breaking  heart,  and  emptying  of  eyes. 

I  feel  the  warm  hand  on  my  shoulder  light, 
I  hear  the  music  of  a  voice  that  words 
The  slow  time  of  the  feet,  I  see  the  white 
Arms    slanting,    and    the    dimples    fold    and 

fill.  ... 
I  hear  wing-flutters  of  the  early  birds, 
I  see  the  tide  of  morning  landward  spill, 
The  cloaking  maidens,  hear  the  voice  that  tells 
"  You'd   never   know "   and   "  Soon   perhaps 

again," 


96  A  MEMORY 

With  white  teeth  biting  down  the  inly  pain, 

Then  sounds  of  going  away  and 'sad  farewells. 

A  year  ago !     It  seems  but  yesterday. 
Yesterday!     And  a  hundred  years!     All  one. 
'Tis  laid  a  something  finished,  dark,  away, 
To  gather  mould  upon  the  shelves  of  Time. 
What  matters  -hours  or  aeons  when  'tis  gone  ? 
And  yet  the  heart  will  dust  it  of  its  grime, 
And  hover  round  it  in  a  silver  spell. 
Be  lost  in  it  and  cry  aloud  in  fear ; 
And  like  a  lost  soul  in  a  pious  ear, 
Hammer  in  mine  a  never  easy  bell. 


A  SONG 
My  heart  has  flown  on  wings  to  you,  away 
In  the  lonely  places  where  your  footsteps  lie 
Full  up  of  stars  when  the  short  showers  of  day 
Have  passed  like  ancient  sorrows.     I  would  fly 
To  your  green  solitude  of  woods  to  hear 
You  singing  in  the  sounds  of  leaves  and  birds ; 
But  I  am  sad  below  the  depth  of  words 
That  nevermore  we  two  shall  draw  anear. 

Had  I  but  wealth  of  land  and  bleating  flocks 
And  barnfuls  of  the  yellow  harvest  yield, 
And  a  large  house  with  climbing  hollyhocks 
And  servant  maidens  singing  in  the  field, 

97 


98  A  SONG 

You'd  love  me ;  but  I  own  no  roaming  herds, 
My  only  wealth  is  songs  of  love  for  you, 
And  now  that  you  are  lost  I  may  pursue 
A  sad  life  deep  below  the  depth  of  words. 


A  FEAR 
I  ROAMED  the  woods  to-day  and  seemed  to  hear, 
As  Dante  heard,  the  voice  of  suffering  trees. 
The  twisted  roots  seemed  bare  contorted  knees. 
The  bark  was  full  of  faces  strange  with  fear. 

I  hurried  home  still  wrapt  in  that  dark  spell, 
And  all  the  night  upon  the  world's  great  lie 
I  pondered,  and  a  voice  seemed  whisp'ring 

nigh, 
"  You  died  long  since,  and  all  this  thing  is 

hell!" 


99 


THE  COMING  POET 
"  Is  it  far  to  the  town?  "  said  the  poet, 
As  he  stood  'neath  the  groaning  vane, 
And  the  warm  lights  shimmered  silver 
On  the  skirts  of  the  windy  rain. 
"  There  are  those  who  call  me,"  he  pleaded, 
"  And  I'm  wet  and  travel  sore." 
But  nobody  spoke  from  the  shelter. 
And  he  turned  from  the  bolted  door. 

And  they  wait  in  the  town  for  the  poet 
With  stones  at  the  gates,  and  jeers, 
But  away  on  the  wolds  of  distance 
In  the  blue  of  a  thousand  years 

100 


THE  COMING  POET  loi 

He  sleeps  with  the  age  that  knows  him, 
In  the  clay  of  the  unborn,  dead, 
Rest  at  his  weary  insteps, 
Fame  at  his  crumbled  head. 


THE  VISION  ON  THE  BRINK 
To-night  when  you  sit  in  the  deep  hours  alone, 
And  from  the  sleeps  you  snatch  wake  quick 
and  feel 
You  hear  my  step  upon  the  threshold-stone, 

My  hand  upon  the  doorway  latchward  steal, 
Be  sure  'tis  but  the  white  winds  of  the  snow, 
For  I  shall  come  no  more. 


And  when  the  candle  in  the  pane  is  wore, 
And  moonbeams  down  the  hill  long  shadows 

throw, 
When  night's  white  eyes  are  in  the  chinky 

door, 

102 


THE  VISION  ON  THE  BRINK  103 

Think  of  a  long  road  in  a  valley  low, 
Think  of  a  wanderer  in  the  distance  far, 
Lost  like  a  voice  among  the  scattered  hills. 

And  when  the  moon  has  gone  and  ocean  spills 
Its  waters  backward  from  the  trysting  bar, 

And  in  dark  furrows  of  the  night  there  tills 
A  jewelled  plough,  and  many  a  falling  star 

Moves  you  to  prayer,  then  will  you  think  of  me 
On  the  long  road  that  will  not  ever  end. 

Jonah  is  hoarse  in  Nineveh  —  I'd  lend 

My  voice  to  save  the  town  —  and  hurriedly 

Goes  Abraham  with  murdering  knife,  and  Ruth 
Is  weary  in  the  corn.  .  .  .  Yet  will  I  stay. 

For  one  flower  blooms  upon  the  rocks  of  truth, 
God  is  in  all  our  hurry  and  delay. 


TO  LORD  DUNSANY 
(on  his  return  from  east  Africa) 

For  you  I  knit  these  lines,  and  on  their  ends 
Hang  Httle  tossing  bells  to  ring  you  home. 
The  music  is  all  cracked,  and  Poesy  tends 
To  richer  blooms  than  mine;  but  you  who 

roam 
Thro'  coloured  gardens  of  the  highest  muse, 
And  leave  the  door  ajar  sometimes  that  we 
May  steal  small  breathing  things  of  reds  and 

blues 
And  things  of  white  sucked  empty  by  the  bee, 
Will  listen  to  this  bunch  of  bells  from  me. 

My  cowslips  ring  you  welcome  to  the  land 
104 


TO  LORD  DUNSANY  105 

Your  muse  brings  honour  to  in  many  a  tongue, 
Not  only  that  I  long  to  clasp  your  hand, 
But  that  you're  missed  by  poets  who  have  sung 
And  viewed  with  doubt  the  music  of  their  verse 
All  the  long  winter,  for  you  love  to  bring 
The  true  note  in  and  say  the  wise  thing  terse, 
And  show  what  birds  go  lame  upon  a  wing, 
And  where  the  weeds  among  the  flowers  do 
spring. 


ON  AN  OATEN  STRAW 
My  harp  is  out  of  tune,  and  so  I  take 
An  oaten  straw  some  shepherd  dropped  of  old. 
It  is  the  hour  when  Beauty  doth  awake 
With  trembhng  limbs  upon  the  dewy  cold. 
And  shapes  of  green  show  where  the  woolly 

fold 
Slept  in  the  winding  shelter  of  the  brake. 

This  I  will  pipe  for  you,  how  all  the  year 
The  one  I  love  like  Beauty  takes  her  way. 
Wrapped  in  the  wind  of  winter  she  doth  cheer 
The  loud  woods  like  a  sunbeam  of  the  May. 
This  I  will  pipe  for  you  the  whole  blue  day 
Seated  with  Pan  upon  the  mossy  weir. 
io6 


EVENING  IN  FEBRUARY 

The  windy  evening  drops  a  grey- 
Old  eyelid  down  across  the  sun, 
The  last  crow  leaves  the  ploughman's  way, 
And  happy  lambs  make  no  more  fun. 

Wild  parsley  buds  beside  my  feet, 

A  doubtful  thrush  makes  hurried  tune, 

The  steeple  in  the  village  street 

Doth  seem  to  pierce  the  twilight  moon. 

I  hear  and  see  those  changing  charms. 
For  all  —  my  thoughts  are  fixed  upon 
The  hurry  and  the  loud  alarms 
Before  the  fall  of  Babylon. 
107 


THE  SISTER 
I  SAW  the  little  quiet  town, 
And  the  whitewashed  gables  on  the  hill, 
And  laughing  children  coming  down 
The  laneway  to  the  mill. 

Wind-blushes  up  their  faces  glowed, 
And  they  were  happy  as  could  be. 
The  wobbling  water  never  flowed 
So  merry  and  so  free. 

One  little  maid  withdrew  aside 
To  pick  a  pebble  from  the  sands. 
Her  golden  hair  was  long  and  wide, 
And  there  were  dimples  on  her  hands. 
io8 


THE  SISTER  109 

And  when  I  saw  her  large  blue  eyes, 
What  was  the  pain  that  went  thro'  me? 
Why  did  I  think  on  Southern  skies 
And  ships  upon  the  sea? 


BEFORE  THE  WAR  OF  COOLEY 
At  daybreak  Maeve  rose  up  from  where  she 

prayed 
And  took  her  prophetess  across  her  door 
To  gaze  upon  her  hosts.     Tall  spear  and  blade 
Burnished  for  early  battle  dimly  shook 
The  morning's  colours,  and  then  Maeve  said : 

"Look 
And  tell  me  how  you  see  them  now." 

And  then 
The  woman  that  was  lean  with  knowledge  said : 
"  There's  crimson  on  them,  and  there's  drip- 
ping red." 
And  a  tall  soldier  galloped  up  the  glen 


BEFORE  THE  WAR  OF  COOLEY         m 
With  foam  upon  his  boot,  and  halted  there 
Beside  old  Maeve.     She  said,  "  Not  yet,"  and 

turned 
Into  her  blazing  dun,  and  knelt  in  prayer 
One  solemn  hour,  and  once  again  she  came 
And  sought  her  prophetess.     With  voice  that 

mourned, 
**  How  do  you  see  them  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  All  lame 
And  broken  in  the  noon."  And  once  again 
The  soldier  stood  before  her. 

"  No,  not  yet." 
Maeve  answered  his  inquiring  look  and  turned 
Once  more  unto  her  prayer,  and  yet  once  more 
"  How  do  you  see  them  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  All  wet 
With  storm  rains,  and  all  broken,  and  all  tore 


112         BEFORE  THE  WAR  OF  COOLEY 

With    midnight     wolves."     And     when     the 

soldier  came 
Maeve  said,  "  It  is  the  hour."     There  was  a 

flash 
Of  trumpets  in  the  dim,  a  silver  flame 
Of  rising  shields,  loud  words  passed  down  the 

ranks, 
And  twenty  feet  they  saw  the  lances  leap. 
They  passed  the  dun  with  one  short  noisy  dash. 
And  turning  proud  Maeve  gave  the  wise  one 

thanks. 
And  sought  her  chamber  in  the  dun  to  weep. 


LOW-MOON  LAND 
I  OFTEN  look  when  the  moon  is  low 
Thro'  that  other  window  on  the  wall, 
At  a  land  all  beautiful  under  snow, 
Blotted  with  shadows  that  come  and  go 
When  the  winds  rise  up  and  fall. 
And  the  form  of  a  beautiful  maid 
In  the  white  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  me  with  her  hands. 

And  when  the  cares  of  the  day  are  laid. 
Like  sacred  things,  in  the  mart  away, 
I  dream  of  the  low-moon  land  and  the  maid 
Who  will  not  weary  of  waiting,  or  jade 
"3 


114  LOW-MOON  LAND 

Of  calling  to  me  for  aye. 

And  I  would  go  if  I  knew  the  sea 

That  lips  the  shore  where  the  moon  is  low, 

For  a  longing  is  on  me  that  will  not  go. 


THE  SORROW  OF  FINDEBAR 

"  Why  do  you  sorrow,  child  ?     There  is  loud 

cheer 
In  the  wide  halls,  and  poets  red  with  wine 
Tell  of  your  eyebrows  and  your  tresses  long, 
And  pause  to  let  your  royal  mother  hear 
The  brown  bull  low  amid  her  silken  kine. 
And  you  who  are  the  harpstring  and  the  song 
Weep  like  a  memory  born  of  some  old  pain." 

And  Findebar  made  answer,  "  I  have  slain 
More  than  Cuculain's  sword,  for  I  have  been 
The  promised  meed  of  every  warrior  brave 
In  Tain  Bo  Cualigne  wars,  and  I  am  sad 
As  is  the  red  banshee  that  goes  to  keen 
115 


Ii6  THE  SORROW  OF  FINDEBAR 

Above  the  wet  dark  of  the  deep  brown  grave, 
For  the  warm  loves  that  made  my  memory 
glad." 

And  her  old  nurse  bent  down  and  took  a  wild 
Curl  from  her  eye  and  hung  it  on  her  ear, 
And  said,  **  The  woman  at  the  heavy  quern. 
Who  weeps  that  she  will  never  bring  a  child, 
And  sees  her  sadness  in  the  coming  year, 
Will  roll  up  all  her  beauty  like  a  fern ; 
Not  you,  whose  years  stretch  purple  to  the 
end.'^ 


And  Findebar,  "  Beside  the  broad  blue  bend 
Of  the  slow  river  where  the  dark  banks  slope 
Wide  to  the  woods  sleeps  Ferdia  apart. 


THE  SORROW  OF  FINDEBAR  117 

I  loved  him,  and  then  drove  him  for  pride's 

sake 
To  early  death,  and  now  I  have  no  hope, 
For  mine  is  Maeve's  proud  heart,  Ailill's  kind 

heart. 
And  that  is  why  it  pines  and  will  not  break." 


ON  DREAM  WATER 
And  so,  o'er  many  a  league  of  sea 
We  sang  of  those  we  left  behind. 
Our  ship  split  thro'  the  phosphor  free, 
Her  white  sails  pregnant  with  the  wind, 
And  I  was  wondering  in  my  mind 
How  many  would  remember  me. 

Then  red-edged  dawn  expanded  wide, 
A  stony  foreland  stretched  away, 
And  bowed  capes  gathering  round  the  tide 
Kept  many  a  little  homely  bay. 
O  joy  of  living  there  for  aye, 
O  Soul  so  often  tried! 
ii8 


THE  DEATH  OF  SUALTEM 
After  the  brown  bull  passed  from  Cooley's 

fields 
And  all  Muirevne  was  a  wail  of  pain, 
Sualtem  came  at  evening  thro'  the  slain 
And  heard  a  noise  like  water  rushing  loud, 
A  thunder  like  the  noise  of  mighty  shields. 
And  in  his  dread  he  shouted :  "  Earth  is  bowed, 
The  heavens  are  split  and  stars  make  war  with 

stars 
And  the  sea  runs  in  fear ! " 

For  all  his  scars 
He  hastened  to  Dun  Dealgan,  and  there  found 
It  was  his  son,  Curculain,  making  moan. 

"9 


120  THE  DEATH  OF  SUALTEM 

His  hair  was  red  with  blood  and  he  was  wound 
In  wicker  full  of  grass,  and  a  cold  stone 
Was  on  his  head. 

"  Cuculain,  is  it  so  ?  " 
Sualtem  said,  and  then,  "  My  hair  is  snow, 
My  strength  leaks  thro'  my  wounds,  but  I  will 
die 

r 

Avenging  you." 

And  then  Cuculain  said : 
"  Not  so,  old  father,  but  take  horse  and  ride 
To  Emain  Macha,  and  tell  Connor  this." 
Sualtem  from  his  red  lips  took  a  kiss, 
And  turned  the  stone  upon  Cuculain' s  head. 
The  Lia-Macha  with  a  heavy  sigh 
Ran  up  and  halted  by  his  wounded  side. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SUALTEM  121 

In  Emain  Macha  to  low  lights  and  song 
Connor  was  dreaming  of  the  beauteous  Maeve. 
He  saw  her  as  at  first,  by  Shannon's  wave, 
Her  insteps  in  the  water,  mounds  of  white. 
It  was  in  Spring,  and  music  loud  and  strong 
Rocked  all  the  coloured  woods,  and  the  blue 

height 
Of  heaven  was  round  the  lark,  and  in  his  heart 
There  was  a  pain  of  love. 

Then  with  a  start 
He  wakened  as  a  loud  voice  from  below 
Shouted,   "  The  land  is  robbed,   the  women 

shamed, 
The  children  stolen,  and  Curculain  low !  " 
Then  Connor  rose,  his  war-worn  soul  inflamed. 
And  shouted  down  for  Cathbad;  then  to  greet 
The  messenger  he  hurried  to  the  street. 


122  THE  DEATH  OF  SUALTEM 

And  there  he  saw  Sualtem  shouting  still 

The  message  of  Muirevne  'mid  the  sound 

Of  hurried  bucklings  and  uneasy  horse. 

At  sight  of  him  the  Lia-Macha  wheeled, 

So  that  Sualtem  fell  upon  his  shield, 

And    his    grey    head    came    shouting    to    the 

ground. 
They  buried  him  by  moonlight  on  the  hill, 
And  all  about  him  waves  the  heavy  gorse. 


THE  MAID  IN  LOW-MOON  LAND 
I  KNOW  not  where  she  be,  and  yet 
I  see  her  waiting  white  and  tall. 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  lips  are  wet, 
And  move  as  tho'  they'd  love  to  call. 
I  see  her  shadow  on  the  wall 
Before  the  changing  moon  has  set. 

She  stands  there  lovely  and  alone 
And  up  her  porch  blue  creepers  swing. 
The  world  she  moves  in  is  her  own, 
To  sun  and  shade  and  hasty  wing. 
And  I  would  wed  her  in  the  Spring, 
But  only  I  sit  here  and  moan. 
123 


THE  DEATH  OF  LEAG,  CUCHULAIN'S 
CHARIOTEER 

CONALL 

"  I  ONLY  heard  the  loud  ebb  on  the  sand, 
The  high  ducks  talking  in  the  chilly  sky. 
The  voices  that  you  fancied  floated  by 
Were  wind  notes,  or  the  whisper  on  the  trees. 
But  you  are  still  so  full  of  war's  red  din, 
You  hear  impatient  hoof -beats  up  the  land 
When  the  sea's  changing,  or  a  lisping  breeze 
Is  playing  on  the  waters  of  the  linn." 

LEAG 

"  I  hear  Cuchulain's  voice,  and  Emer's  voice, 

The  Lia  Macha's  neigh,  the  chariot's  wheels, 

124 


THE  DEATH  OF  LEAG  135 

Farther  away  a  bell  bough's  drowsy  peals ; 
And  sleep  lays  heavy  thumbs  upon  my  eyes. 
I  hear  Cuchulain  sing  above  the  chime 
Of  One  Who  comes  to  make  the  world  rejoice, 
And  comes  again  to  blot  away  the  skies, 
To  wipe  away  the  world  and  roll  up  Time." 

CONALL 

"  In  the  dark  ground  forever  mouth  to  mouth 
They  kiss  thro'  all  the  changes  of  the  world, 
The  grey  sea  fogs  above  them  are  unfurled 
At  evening  when  the  sea  walks  with  the  moon, 
And  peace  is  with  them  in  the  long  cairn  shut. 
You  loved  him  as  the  swallow  loves  the  South, 
And  Love  speaks  with  you  since  the  evening 

put 
Mist  and  white  dews  upon  short  shadowed 

noon." 


136  THE  DEATH  OF  LEAG 

LEAG 

"  Sleep  lays  his  heavy  thumbs  upon  my  eyes, 
Shuts  out  all  sounds  and  shakes  me  at  the 

wrists. 
By  Nanny  water  where  the  salty  mists 
Weep  o'er  Riangabra  let  me  stand  deep 
Beside  my  father.     Sleep  lays  heavy  thumbs 
Upon  my  eyebrows,  and  I  hear  the  sighs 
Of  far  loud  waters,  and  a  troop  that  comes 
With  boughs  of  bells " 

CONALL 

"\    "  They  come  to  you  with  sleep." 


THE  PASSING  OF  CAOILTE 
'TwAS  just  before  the  truce  sang  thro'  the  din 
Caoilte,  the  thin  man,  at  the  war's  red  end 
Leaned  from  the  crooked  ranks  and  saw  his 

friend 
Fall  in  the  farther  fury;  so  when  truce 
Halted  advancing  spears  the  thin  man  came 
And  bending  by  pale  Oscar  called  his  name ; 
And  then  he  knew  of  all  who  followed  Finn, 
He  only  felt  the  cool  of  Gavra's  dews. 

And  Caoilte,  the  thin  man,  went  down  the 

field 
To  where  slow  water  moved  among  the  whins, 
And  sat  above  a  pool  of  twinkling  fins 
127 


128  THE  PASSING  OF  CAOILTE 

To  court  old  memories  of  the  Fenian  men, 
Of  how  Finn's  laugh  at  Conan's  tale  of  glee 
Brought  down  the  rowan's  boughs  on  Knoc- 

naree, 
And  how  he  made  swift  comets  with  his  shield 
At  moonlight  in  the  Fomar's  rivered  glen. 

And  Caolite,  the  thin  man,  was  weary  now. 
And  nodding  in  short  sleeps  of  half  a  dream: 
There    came   a    golden   barge    down    middle 

stream. 
And  a  tall  maiden  coloured  like  a  bird 
Pulled  noiseless  oars,  but  not  a  word  she  said. 
And  Caoilte,  the  thin  man,  raised  up  his  head 
And  took  her  kiss  upon  .his  throbbing  brow. 
And  where  they  went  away  what  man  has 

heard? 


GROWING  OLD 
We'll  fill  a  Provence  bowl  and.  pledge  us  deep 
The  memory  of  the  far  ones,  and  between 
The  soothing  pipes,  in  heavy-lidded  sleep, 
Perhaps  we'll  dream  the  things  that  once  have 

been. 
'Tis  only  noon  and  still  too  soon  to  die, 
Yet  we  are  growing  old,  my  heart  and  I. 

A  hundred  books  are  ready  in  my  head 
To  open  out  where  Beauty  bent  a  leaf. 
What  do  we  want  with  Beauty  ?    We  are  wed 
Like  ancient  Proserpine  to  dismal  grief. 
129 


130  GROWING  OLD 

And  we  are  changing  with  the  hours  that  fly, 

And  growing  odd  and  old,  my  heart  and  I. 

Across  a  bed  of  bells  the  river  flows. 
And  roses  dawn,  but  not  for  us ;  we  want 
The  new  thing  ever  as  the  old  thing  grows 
Spectral  and  weary  on  the  hills  we  haunt. 
And  that  is  why  we  feast,  and  that  is  why 
We're  growing  odd  and  old,  my  heart  and  I. 


AFTER  MY  LAST  SONG 
Where  I  shall  rest  when  my  last  song  is  over 
The  air  is  smelling  like  a  feast  of  wine; 
And  purple  breakers  of  the  windy  clover 
Shall  roll  to  cool  this  burning  brow  of  mine ; 
And  there  shall  come  to  me,  when  day  is  told 
The  peace  of  sleep  when  I  am  grey  and  old. 

I'm  wild  for  wandering  to  the  far-off  places 
Since  one  forsook  me  whom  I  held  most  dear. 
I  want  to  see  new  wonders  and  new  faces 
Beyond  East  seas ;  but  I  will  win  back  here 
When  my  last  song  is  sung,  and  veins  are  cold 
As  thawing  snow,  and  I  am  grey  and  old. 
131 


132  AFTER  MY  LAST  SONG 

Oh  paining  eyes,  but  not  with  salty  weeping, 

My  heart  is  like  a  sod  in  winter  rain ; 

Ere  you  will  see  those  baying  waters  leaping 

Like  hungry  hounds  once  more,  how  many  a 

pain 
Shall  heal;  but  when  my  last  short  song  is 

trolled 
You'll  sleep  here  on  wan  cheeks  grown  thin 

and  old. 


SONGS  OF  PEACE 
AT  HOME 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 
There  was  soft  beauty  on  the  linnet's  tongue 
To  see  the  rainbow's  coloured  bands  arch  wide. 
The  thunder  darted  his  red  fangs  among 
South  mountains,  but  the  East  was  like  a  bride 
Drest  for  the  altar  at  her  mother's  door 
Weeping  between  two  loves.     The  fields  were 

pied 
With  May's  munificence  of  flowers,  that  wore 
The  fashion  of  the  days  when  Eve  was  young, 
God's  kirtles,  ere  the  first  sweet  summer  died. 
The  blackbird  in  a  thorn  of  waving  white 
Sang  bouquets  of  small  tunes  that  bid  me  turn 
From  twilight  wanderings  thro'  some  old  de- 
light 
I  heard  in  my  far  memory  making  mourn. 

135 


136  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

Such  music  fills  me  with  a  joy  half  pain, 

And  beats  a  track  across  my  life  I  spurn 

In  sober  moments.     Ah,  this  wandering  brain 

Could  play  its  hurdy-gurdy  all  the  night 

To  vagrant  joys  of  days  beyond  the  bourn. 

I  heard  the  river  warble  sweetly  nigh 
To  meet  the  warm  salt  tide  below  the  weir, 
And  saw  a  coloured  line  of  cows  pass  by, — 
And  then  a  voice  said  quickly,  "  Iris  here !  " 
"  What  message  now  hath   Hera  ?  "   then   I 

woke. 
An  exile  in  Arcadia,  and  a  spear 
Flashed  by  me,  and  ten  nymphs  fleet-footed 

broke 
Out  of  the  coppice  with  a  silver  cry, 
Into  the  bow  of  lights  to  disappear. 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  137 

For  one  blue  minute  then  there  was  no  sound 
Save  water-noise,  slow  round  a  rushy  bend, 
And  bird-delight,  and  ripples  on  the  ground 
Of  windy  flowers  that  swelling  would  ascend 
The  coloured  hill  and  break  all  beautiful 
And,  falling  backwards,  to  the  woods  would 

send 
The  full  tide  of  their  love.  What  soft  moons 

pull 
Their  moving  fragrance?  did  I  ask,  and  found 
Sad  lo  in  far  Egypt  met  a  friend. — 
It  was  my  body  thought  so,  far  away 
In  the  grey  future,  not  the  wild  bird  tied 
That  is  the  wandering  soul.     Behind  the  day 
We  may  behold  thee,  soft  one,  hunted  wide 
By  the  loud  gadfly;  but  the  truant  soul 
Knows  thee  before  thou  lay  by  night's  dark  side, 


138  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

Wed  to  the  dimness ;  long  before  its  dole 

Was  meted  it,  to  be  thus  pound  in  clay 

That  daubs  its  whiteness  and  offends  its  pride. 

There  were  loud  questions  in  the  rainbow's  end, 
And  hurried  answers,  and  a  sound  of  spears. 
And  through  the  yellow  blaze  I  saw  one  bend 
Down  on  a  trembling  white  knee,  and  her  tears 
Fell  down  in  globes  of  light,  and  her  small 

mouth 
Was  filled  up  with  a  name  unspoken.  Years 
Of  waiting  love,  and  all  their  long,  long  drought 
Of  kisses  parched  her  lips,  and  did  she  spend 
Her  eyes  blue  candles  searching  thro'  her  fears. 
"  She  hath  loved  Ganymede,  the  stolen  boy." 
Said  one,  and  then  another,  "  Let  us  sing 
To  Zeus  that  he  may  give  her  living  joy 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  139 

Above  Olympus,  where  the  cool  hill-spring 
Of  Lethe  bubbles  up  to  bathe  the  heart 
Sorrow's  lean  fingers  bruised.     There  eagles 

wing 
To  eyries  in  the  stars,  and  when  they  part 
Their  broad  dark  wings  a  wind  is  born  to 

buoy 
The  bee  home  heavy  in  the  far  evening." 

HYMN   TO   ZEUS 

"  GrOD,  whose  kindly  hand  doth  sow 
The  rainbow  showers  on  hill  and  lawn, 
To  make  the  young  sweet  grasses  grow 
And  fill  the  udder  of  the  fawn. 
Whose  light  is  life  of  leaf  and  flower. 
And  all  the  colours  of  the  birds. 
Whose  song  goes  on  from  hour  to  hour 


140  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

Upon  the  river's  liquid  words. 
Reach  out  a  golden  beam  of  thine 
And  touch,  her  pain.     Your  finger-tips 
Do  make  the  violets'  blue  eclipse 
Like  milk  upon  a  daisy  shine. 

God,  who  lights  the  little  stars, 
And  over  night  the  white  dew  spills. 
Whose  hand  doth  move  the  season's  cars 
And  clouds  that  mock  our  pointed  hills. 
Whose  bounty  fills  the  cow-trod  wold, 
And  fills  with  bread  the  warm  brown  sod. 
Who  brings  us  sleep,  where  we  grow  old 
'Til  sleep  and  age  together  nod. 

Reach  out  a  beam  and  touch  the  pain 
A  heart  has  oozed  thro'  all  the  years. 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  141 

Your  pity  dries  the  morning's  tears 
And  fills  the  world  with  joy  again! " 
The  rainbow's  lights  were  shut,  and  all  the 

maids 
Stood  round  the  sad  nymph  in  a  snow-white 

ring, 
She   rising   spoke,   "  A   blue   and   soft   light 

bathes 
Me  to  the  fingers.     Lo,   I  upward  swing!" 
And  round  her  fell  a  mantle  of  blue  light. 
"  Watch  for  me  on  the  forehead  of  evening." 
And  lifting  beautiful  went  out  of  sight. 
And  all  the  flowers  flowed  backward  from  the 

glades, 
An  ebb  of  colours  redolent  of  Spring. 

Beauty  and  Love  are  sisters  of  the  heart, 


142  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

Love  has  no  voice,  and  Beauty  whispered  song. 

Now  in  my  own,  drawn  silently  apart 

Love  looked,  and  Beauty  *sang.     I  felt  a  strong 

Pulse  on  my  wrist,  a  feeling  like  a  pain 

In  my  quick  heart,  for  Love  with  gazes  long 

Was  worshipping  at  Artemis,  now  lain 

Among  the  heaving  flowers  ...  I  longed  ta 

dart 
And  fold  her  to  my  breast,  nor  saw  the  wrong. 
She  lay  there,  a  tall  beauty  by  her  spear, 
Her  kirtle  falling  to  her  soft  round  knee. 
Her  hair  was  like  the  day  when  evening's  near. 
And  her  moist  mouth  might  tempt  the  golden 

bee. 
Smile's  creases  ran   from  dimples  pink  and 

deep. 
And  when  she  raised  her  arms  I  loved  to  see 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  143 

The  white  mounds  of   her  muscles.     Gentle 

sleep 
Threatened   her   far  blue   looks.     The   noisy- 
weir 
Fell  into  a  low  murmuring  lullaby. 
And  then  the  flowers  came  back  behind  the 

heel 
Of  hunted  lo :  she,  poor  maid,  had  fear 
Wide  in  her  eyes  looking  half  back  to  steal 
A  glimpse  of  the  loud  gadfly  fiercely  near. 
In  her  right  hand  she  held  a  slanting  light. 
And  in  her  left  her  train.     Artemis  here 
Raised  herself  on  her  palms,  and  took  a  white 
Horn  from  her  side  and  blew  a  silver  peal 
'Til  three  hounds  from  the  coppice  did  appear. 

The  white  nine  left  the  spaces  of  flowers,  and 
now 


144  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

Went  calling  thro'  the  woods  the  hunter's  call. 
Young  echoes  sleeping  in  the  hollow  bough 
Took  up  the  shouts  and  handed  them  to  all 
Their  sisters  of  the  crags,  'til  all  the  day 
Was  filled  with  voices  loud  and  musical. 
I  followed  them  across  a  tangled  way 
'Til  the  red  deer  broke  out  and  took  the  brow 
Of  a  wide  hill  in  bounces  like  a  ball. 
Besides  swift  Artemis  I  joined  the  chase; 
We  roused  up  kine  and  scattered  fleecy  flocks; 
Crossed  at  a  mill  a  swift  and  bubbly  race ; 
Scaled  in  a  wood  of  pine  the  knotty  rocks ; 
Past  a  grey  vision  of  a  valley  town; 
Past  swains  at  labour  in  their  coloured  frocks ; 
Once  saw  a  boar  upon  a  windy  down ; 
Once  heard  a  cradle  in  a  lonely  place, 
And  saw  the  red  flash  of  a  frightened  fox. 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  145 

We  passed  a  garden  where  three  maids  in  blue 
Were  talking  of  a  queen  a  long  time  dead. 
We  caught  a  green  glimpse  of  the  sea:  then 

thro' 
A  town  all  hills ;  now  round  a  wood  we  sped 
And  killed  our  quarry  in  his  native  lair. 
Then  Artemis  spun  round  to  me  and  said, 
"  When   come  you  ? "   and   I  took  her  long 

damp  hair 
And  made  a  ball  of  it,  and  said,  "  Where  you 
Are  midnight's  dreams  of  love."     She  dropped 

her  head, 
No  word  she  spoke,  but,  panting  in  her  side, 
I  heard  her  heart.     The  trees  were  all  at  peace. 
And  lifting  slowly  on  the  grey  evetide 
A  large  and  lovely  star.     Then  to  release 
Her  hair,   my  hand  dropped   to  her  girded 

waist 


146  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

And  lay  there  shyly.     "  O  my  love,  the  lease 

Of  your  existence  is  for  ever :  taste 

No  less  with  me  the  love  of  earth,"  I  cried. 

"  Thought  for  so  short  a  while  on  lands  and 

seas 
Our  mortal  hearts  know  beauty,  and  overblow, 
And  we  are  dust  upon  some  passing  wind. 
Dust  and  a  memory.     But  for  you  the  snow 
That  so  long  cloaks  the  mountains  to  the  knees 
Is  no  more  than  a  morning.     It  doth  go 
And  summer  comes,  and  leaf  upon  the  trees : 
Still  you  are   fair  and  young,  and   nothing 

find 
In  all  man's  story  that  seems  long  ago. 
I  have  not  loved  on  Earth  the  strife  for  gold, 
Nor  the  great  name  that  makes  immortal  man. 
But  all  that  struggle  upward  to  behold 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  147 

What  still  is  left  of  Beauty  undisgraced, 
The  snowdrop  at  the  heel  of  winter  cold 
And    shivering,    and    the    wayward    cuckoo 

chased 
By  lingering  March,  and,  in  the  thunder's  van 
The  poor  lambs  m'erry  on  the  meagre  wold. 
By-ways  and  cast-off  things  that  lie  therein. 
Old  boots  that  trod  the  highways  of  the  world, 
The  schoolboy's  broken  hoop,  the  battered  bin 
That   heard    the    ragman's    story,    blackened 

places 
Where    gipsies    camped    and    circuses    made 

din, 
Fast  water  and  the  melancholy  traces 
Of  sea  tides,  and  poor  people  madly  whirled 
Up,  down,  and  through  the  black  retreats  of 

sin. 


148  A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS 

These  things  a  god  might  love,  and  stooping 

bless 
With  benedictions  of  eternal  song. — 
But  I  have  not  loved  Artemis  the  less 
For  loving  these,  but  deem  it  noble  love 
To  sing  of  live  or  dead  things  in  distress 
And  wake  memorial  memories  above. 


"  Such  is  the  soul  that  comes  to  plead  with  you 
Oh,  Artemis,  to  tend  you  in  your  needs. 
At  mornings  I  will  bring  you  bells  of  dew 
From  honey  places,  and  wild  fish  from  streams 
Flowing  in  secret  places.     I  will  brew 
Sweet  wine  of  alder  for  your  evening  dreams, 
And  pipe  you  music  in  the  dusky  reeds 
When  the  four  distances  give  up  their  blue. 


A  DREAM  OF  ARTEMIS  149 

And  when  the  white  procession  of  the  stars 
Crosses  the  night,  and  on  their  tattered  wings, 
Above  the  forest,  cry  the  loud  night-jars, 
We'll  hunt  the  stag  upon  the  mountain-side. 
Slipping  like  light  between  the  shadow  bars 
'Til  burst  of  dawn  makes  every  distance  wide. 
Oh,  Artemis  —  what  grief  the  silence  brings! 
I  hear  the  rolling  chariot  of  Mars ! " 


A  LITTLE  BOY  IN  THE  MORNING 
He  will  not  come,  and  still  I  wait. 
He  whistles  at  another  gate 
Where  angels  listen.     Ah,  I  know 
He  will  not  come,  yet  if  I  go 
How  shall  I  know  he  did  not  pass 
Barefooted  in  the  flowery  grass? 

The  moon  leans  on  one  silver  horn 
Above  the  silhouettes  of  morn, 
And  from  their  nest  sills  finches  whistle 
Or  stooping  pluck  the  downy  thistle. 
How  is  the  morn  so  gay  and  fair 
Without  his  whistling  in  its  air? 
The  world  is  calling,  I  must  go. 
How  shall  I  know  he  did  not  pass 
Barefooted  in  the  shining  grass? 
ISO 


IN  BARRACKS 


TO  A  DISTANT  ONE 

Through  wild  by-ways  I  come  to  you,  my 
love, 

Nor  ask  of  those  I  meet  the  surest  way. 

What  way  I  turn  I  cannot  go  astray 

And  miss  you  in  my  life.     Though  Fate  may 

prove 
A  tardy  guide  she  will  not  make  delay 
Leading  me  through  strange  seas  and  distant 

lands, 
I'm  coming  still,  though  slowly,  to  your  hands. 
We'll  meet  one  day. 

There  is  so  much  to  do,  so  little  done. 
In  my  life's  space  that  I  perforce  did  leave 
Love  at  the  moonlit  trysting-place  to  grieve 

IS3 


154  TO  A  DISTANT  ONE 

Till  fame  and  other  little  things  were  won. 
I  have  missed  much  that  I  shall  not  retrieve, 
Far  will  I  wander  yet  with  much  to  do. 
Much  will  I  spurn  before  I  yet  meet  you, 
So  fair  I  can't  deceive. 

Your  name  is  in  the  whisper  of  the  woods 
Like  Beauty  calling  for  a  poet's  song 
To  one  whose  harp  had  suffered  many  a  wrong 
In  the  lean  hands  of  Pain.     And  when  the 

broods 
Of  flower  eyes  waken  all  the  streams  along 
In  tender  whiles,  I  feel  most  near  to  you:  — 
Oh,  when  we  meet  there  shall  be  sun  and  blue 
Strong  as  the  spring  is  strong. 


THE  PLACE 
Blossoms  as  old  as  May  I  scatter  here, 
And  a  blue  wave  I  lifted  from  the  stream. 
It  shall  not  know  when  winter  days  are  drear 
Or    March    is    hoarse    with    blowing.     But 

a-dream 
The  laurel  boughs  shall  hold  a  canopy 
Peacefully  over  it  the  winter  long, 
Till  all  the  birds  are  back  from  oversea. 
And  April  rainbows  win  a  blackbird's  song. 

And  when  the  war  is  over  I  shall  take 
My  lute  a-down  to  it  and  sing  again 
Songs  of  the  whispering  things  amongst  the 
brake, 

155 


156  THE  PLACE 

And  those  I  love  shall  know  them  by  their 

strain. 
Their  airs  shall  be  the  blackbird's  twilight  song, 
Their  words  '  shall  be  all  flowers  with   fresh 

dews  hoar. — 
But  it  is  lonely  now  in  winter  long. 
And,   God!  to  hear  the  blackbird  sing  once 

more. 


MAY 
She  leans  across  an  orchard  gate  somewhere, 
Bending  from  out  the  shadows  to  the  light, 
A  dappled  spray  of  blossom  in  her  hair 
Studded  with  dew-drops  lovely  from  the  night. 
She  smiles  to  think  how  many  hearts  she'll 

smite 
With  beauty  ere  her  robes  fade  from  the  lawn. 
She  hears  the   robin's  cymbals  with  delight, 
The  skylark  in  the  rosebush  of  the  dawn. 

For  her  the  cowslip  rings  its  yellow  bell. 
For  her  the  violets  watch  with  wide  blue  eyes. 
The  wandering  cuckoo  doth  its  clear  name  tell 
Thro'  the  white  mist  of  blossoms  where  she  lies 
157 


158  MAY 

Painting  a  sunset  for  the  western  skies. 
You'd  know  her  by  her  smile  and  by  her  tear 
And  by  the  way  the  swift  and  martin  flies, 
Where  she  is  south  of  these  wild  days  and 
drear. 


TO  EILISH  OF  THE  FAIR  HAIR 
I'd  make  my  heart  a  harp  to  play  for  you 
Love  songs  within  the  evening  dim  of  day, 
Were  it  not  dumb  with  ache  and  with  mildew 
Of  sorrow  withered  like  a  flower  away. 
It  hears  so  many  calls  from  homeland  places, 
So  many  sighs  from  all  it  will  remember, 
From  the  pale   roads  and  woodlands  where 

your  face  is 
Like  laughing  sunlight  running  thro'  Decem- 
ber. 

But  this  it  singeth  loud  above  its  pain, 
To  bring  the  greater  ache :  whate'er  befall 
The  love  that  oft-times  woke  the  sweeter  strain 
159 


i6o         TO  EILISH  OF  THE  FAIR  HAIR 
Shall  turn  to  you  always.     And  should  you  call 
To  pity  it  some  day  in  those  old  places 
Angels  will  covet  the  loud  joy  that  fills  it. 
But  thinking  of  the  by-ways  where  your  face  is 
Sunlight  on  other  hearts  —  Ah !  how  it  kills  it. 


IN  CAMP 


CREWBAWN 
White  clouds  that  change  and  pass, 
And  stars  that  shine  awhile, 
Dew  water  on  the  grass, 
A  fox  upon  a  stile. 

A  river  broad  and  deep, 
A  slow  boat  on  the  waves, 
My  sad  thoughts  on  the  sleep 
That  hollows  out  the  graves. 


163 


EVENING  IN  ENGLAND 
From  its  blue  vase  the  rose  of  evening  drops. 
Upon  the  streams  its  petals  float  away. 
The  hills  all  blue  with  distance  hide  their  tops 
In  the  dim  silence  falling  on  the  grey. 
A  little  wind  said  "  Hush !  "  and  shook  a  spray 
Heavy   with    May's   white   crop   of   opening 

bloom, 
A  silent  bat  went  dipping  up  the  gloom. 

Night  tells  her  rosary  of  stars  full  soon, 
They  drop   from  out  her  dark  hand  to  her 

knees. 
Upon  a  silhouette  of  woods  the  moon 
164 


EVENING  IN  ENGLAND  165 

Leans  on  one  horn  as  if  beseeching  ease 
From  all  her  changes  which  have  stirred  the 

seas. 
Across  the  ears  of  Toil  Rest  throws  her  veil, 
I  and  a  marsh  bird  only  make  a  wail. 


AT  SEA 


CROCKNAHARNA 
On  the  heights  of  Crocknahama, 
(Oh,  the  lure  of  Crocknaharna) 
On  a  morning  fair  and  early 
Of  a  dear  remembered  May, 
There  I  heard  a  colleen  singing 
In  the  brown  rocks  and  the  grey. 
She,  the  pearl  of  Crocknahama, 
Crocknaharna,  Crocknahama, 
Wild  with  girls  is  Crocknaharna 
Twenty  hundred  miles  away. 

On  the  heights  of  Crocknahama, 
(Oh,  thy  sorrow  Crocknahama) 
On  an  evening  dim  and  misty 
169 


170  CROCKNAHARNA 

Of  a  cold  November  day, 
There  I  heard  a  woman  weeping 
In  the  brown  rocks  and  the  grey. 
Oh,  the  pearl  of  Crocknaharna 
(  Crocknaharna,   Crocknaharna) , 
Black  with  grief  is  Crocknaharna 
Twenty  hundred  miles  away. 


IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  — GOING 
TO  THE  WAR 

Lovely  wings  of  gold  and  green 
Flit  about  the  sounds  I  hear, 
On  my  window  when  I  lean 
To  the  shadows  cool  and  clear. 

•  •  •  • 

Roaming,  I  am  listening  still, 
Bending,  listening  overlong. 
In  my  soul  a  steadier  will. 
In  my  heart  a  newer  song. 


171 


THE  GARDENER 
Among  the  flowers,   like   flowers,   her   slow 

hands  move 
Easing  a  muffled  bell  or  stooping  low 
To  help  sweet  roses  climb  the  stakes  above, 
Where   pansies   stare   and    seem   to   whisper 

"Lo!" 
Like  gaudy  butterflies  her  sweet  peas  blow 
Filling  the  garden  with  dim  rustlings.     Clear 
On  the  sweet  Book  she  reads  how  long  ago 
There  was  a  garden  to  a  woman  dear. 

She  makes  her  life  one  grand  beatitude 
Of  Love  and  Peace,  and  with  contented  eyes 
She  sees  not  in  the  whole  world  mean  or  rude, 
172 


THE  GARDENER  173 

And  her  small  lot  she  trebly  multiplies. 
And  when  the  darkness  muffles  up  the  skies 
Still  to  be  happy  is  her  sole  desire, 
She  sings  sweet  songs  about  a  great  emprise, 
And  sees  a  garden  blowing  in  the  fire. 


IN  SERBIA 


AUTUMN  EVENING  IN  SERBIA 
All  the  thin  shadows 
Have  closed  on  the  grass. 
With  the  drone  on  their  dark  wings 
The  night  beetles  pass. 
Folded  her  eyelids, 
A  maiden  asleep, 
Day  sees  in  her  chamber 
The  pallid  moon  peep. 

From  the  bend  of  the  briar 
The  roses  are  torn, 
And  the  folds  of  the  wood  tops 
Are  faded  and  worn. 
177 


178  AUTUMN  EVENING  IN  SERBIA 

A  Strange  bird  is  singing 
Sweet  notes  of  the  sun, 
Tho'  song  time  is  over 
And  Autumn  begun. 


NOCTURNE 
The  rim  of  the  moon 
Is  over  the  corn. 
The  beetle's  drone 
Is  above  the  thorn. 
Grey  days  come  soon 
And  I  am  alone; 
Can  you  hear  my  moan 
Where  you  rest,  Aroon? 

When  the  wild  tree  bore 
The  deep  blue  cherry, 
In  night's  deep  hall 
179 


i8o  NOCTURNE 

Our  love  kissed  merry. 
But  you  come  no  more 
Where  its  woodlands  call, 
And  the  grey  days  fall 
On  my  grief,  Astore! 


SPRING  AND  AUTUMN 
Green  ripples  singing  down  the  corn, 
With  blossoms  dumb  the  path  I  tread, 
And  in  the  music  of  the  mom 
One  with  wild  roses  on  her  head. 

Now  the  green  ripples  turn  to  gold 
And  all  the  paths  are  loud  with  rain, 
I  with  desire  am  growing  old 
And  full  of  winter  pain. 


i8i 


IN  GREECE 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  PROSERPINE 
Old  mother  Earth  for  me  already  grieves, 
Her  morns  wake  weeping  and  her  noons  are 

dim, 
Silence  has  left  her  woods,  and  all  the  leaves 
Dance  in  the  windy  shadows  on  the  rim 
Of  the  dull  lake  thro'  which  I  soon  shall  pass 

To  my  dark  bridal  bed 
Down  in  the  hollow  chambers  of  the  dead. 
Will  not  the  thunder  hide  me  if  I  call, 
Wrapt  in  the  comer  of  some  distant  star 
The  gods  have  never  known? 

Alas!  alas! 
My  voice  has  left  with  the  last  wing,  my  fall 
Shall  crush  the  flowery  fields  with  gloom,  as 
far 

i8s 


l86        THE  DEPARTURE  OF  PROSERPINE 

As  swallows  fly. 

Would  I  might  die 
And  in  a  solitude  of  roses  lie 
As  the  last  bud's  outblown. 
Then  nevermore  Demeter  would  be  heard 
Wail  in  the  blowing  rain,  but  every  shower 
Would  come  bound  up  with  rainbows  to  the 

birds 
Wrapt  in  a  dusty  wing,  and  the  dry  flower 

Hanging  a  shrivelled  lip. 
This  weary  change  from  light  to  darkness  fills 
My  heart  with  twilight,  and  my  brightest  day 
Dawns  over  thunder  and  in  thunder  spills 

Its  urn  of  gladness 

With  a  sadness 
Through  which  the  slow  dews  drip 
And  the  bat  goes  over  on  a  thorny  wing. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  PROSERPINE        187 
Is  it  a  dream  that  once  I  used  to  sing 
From  2Egea.n  shores  across  her  rocky  isles, 
Making  the  bells  of  Babylon  to  ring 

Over  the  wiles 
That  lifted  me  from  darkness  to  the  Spring? 

And  the  King 
Seeing  his  wine  in  blossom  on  the  tree 
Danced  with  the  queen  a  merry  roundelay, 
And  all  the  blue  circumference  of  the  day 

Was  loud  with  flying  song. 

—  But  let  me  pass  along : 

What  brooks  it  the  unfree  to  thus  delay? 

No  secret  turning  leads  from  the  gods'  way. 


THE  HOMECOMING  OF  THE   SHEEP 
The  sheep  are  coming  home  in  Greece, 
Hark  the  bells  on  every  hill! 
Flock  by  flock,  and  fleece  by  fleece, 
Wandering  wide  a  little  piece 
Thro'  the  evening  red  and  still. 
Stopping  where  the  pathways  cease, 
Cropping  with  a  hurried  will. 

Thro'  the  cotton-bushes  low 
Merry  boys  with  shouldered  crooks 
Close  them  in  a  single  row. 
Shout  among  them  as  they  go 
With  one  bell-ring  o'er  the  brooks. 
i88 


THE  HOMECOMING  OF  THE  SHEEP        189 
Such  delight  you  never  know 
Reading  it  from  gilded  books. 

Before  the  early  stars  are  bright 
Cormorants  and  sea-gulls  call, 
And  the  moon  comes  large  and  white 
Filling  with  a  lovely  light 
The  ferny  curtained  waterfall. 
Then  sleep  wraps  every  bell  up  tight 
And  the  climbing  moon  grows  small. 


WHEN  LOVE  AND  BEAUTY  WANDER 
AWAY 

When  Love  and  Beauty  wander  away, 

And  there's  no  more  hearts  to  be  sought  and 

won, 
When  the  old  earth  Hmps  thro'  the  dreary  day, 
And  the  work  of  the  Seasons  cry  undone : 
Ah!  what  shall  we  do  for  a  song  to  sing, 
Who   have   known   Beauty,    and   Love,   and 

Spring  ? 

When  Love  and  Beauty  wander  away. 

And  a  pale  fear  lies  on  the  cheeks  of  youth, 

When  there's  no  more  goal  to  strive  for  and 

pray, 

igo 


WHEN  LOVE  AND  BEAUTY  WANDER        191 
And  we  live  at  the  end  of  the  world's  untruth : 
Ah !  what  shall  we  do  for  a  heart  to  prove, 
Who  have  known  Beauty,  and  Spring,  and 
Love? 


IN  HOSPITAL  IN  EGYPT 


MY  MOTHER 
God  made  my  mother  on  an  April  day, 
From  sorrow  and  the  mist  along  the  sea, 
Lost  birds'  and  wanderers'  songs  and  ocean 

spray, 
And  the  moon  loved  her  wandering  jealously. 

Beside  the  ocean's  din  she  combed  her  hair, 
Singing  the  nocturne  of  the  passing  ships, 
Before  her  earthly  lover  found  her  there 
And  kissed  away  the  music  from  her  lips. 

She  came  unto  the  hills  and  saw  the  change 
That  brings  the  swallow  and  the  geese  in  turns. 
But  there  was  not  a  grief  she  deemed  strange, 
For  there  is  that  in  her  which  always  mourns. 
195 


196  MY  MOTHER 

Kind  heart  she  has  for  all  on  hill  or  wave 
Whose  hopes  grew  wings  like  ants  to  fly  away. 
I  bless  the  God  Who  such  a  mother  gave 
This  poor  bird-hearted  singer  of  a  day. 


SONG 
Nothing  but  sweet  music  wakes 

My  Beloved,  my  Beloved. 
Sleeping  by  the  blue  lakes, 

My  own  Beloved! 

Song  of  lark  and  song  of  thrush, 

My  Beloved !  my  Beloved ! 
Sing  in  morning's  rosy  bush, 

My  own  Beloved! 

When  your  eyes  dawn  blue  and  clear. 

My  Beloved!  my  Beloved! 
You  will  find  me  waiting  here. 

My  own  Beloved!  . 

197 


TO  ONE  DEAD 

A  BLACKBIRD  singing 
On  a  moss  upholstered  stone, 
Bluebells  swinging, 
Shadows  wildly  blown, 
A  song  in  the  wood, 
A  ship  on  the  sea. 
The  song  was  for  you 
And  the  ship  was  for  me. 

A  blackbird  singing 
I  hear  in  my  troubled  mind. 
Bluebells  swinging 
I  see  in  a  distant  wind. 
198 


TO  ONE  DEAD  199 

But  sorrow  and  silence 
Are  the  wood's  threnody, 
The  silence  for  you 
And  the  sorrow  for  me. 


THE  RESURRECTION 
My  true  love  still  is  all  that's  fair, 
She  is  flower  and  blossom  blowing  free, 
For  all  her  silence  lying  there 
She  sings  a  spirit  song  to  me. 

New  lovers  seek  her  in  her  bower, 
The  rain,  the  dew,  the  flying  wind, 
And  tempt  her  out  to  be  a  flower. 
Which  throws  a  shadow  on  my  mind. 


900 


THE  SHADOW  PEOPLE 
Old  lame  Bridget  doesn't  hear 
Fairy  music  in  the  grass 
When  the  gloaming's  on  the  mere 
And  the  shadow  people  pass: 
Never  hears  their  slow  grey  feet 
Coming  from  the  village  street 
Just  beyond  the  parson's  wall, 
Where  the  clover  globes  are  sweet 
And  the  mushroom's  parasol 
Opens  in  the  moonlit  rain. 
Every  night  I  hear  them  call 
From  their  long  and  merry  train. 
Old  lame  Bridget  says  to  me, 
"  It  is  just  your  fancy,  child." 

201 


202  THE  SHADOW  PEOPLE 

She  cannot  believe  I  see 
Laughing  faces  in  the  wild, 
Hands  that  twinkle  in  the  sedge 
Bowing  at  the  water's  edge 
Where  the  finny  minnows  quiver, 
Shaping  on  a  blue  wave's  ledge 
Bubble  foam  to  sail  the  river. 
And  the  sunny  hands  to  me 
Beckon  ever,  beckon  ever. 
Oh!  I  would  be  wild  and  free 
And  with  the  shadow  people  be. 


IN  BARRACKS 


AN  OLD  DESIRE 
I  SEARCHED  thro'  memory's  lumber-room 
And  there  I  found  an  old  desire, 
I  took  it  gently  from  the  gloom 
To  cherish  by  my  scanty  fire. 

And  all  the  night  a  sweet-voiced  one, 
Sang  of  the  place  my  loves  abide, 
'Til  Earth  leaned  over  from  the  dawn 
And  hid  the  last  star  in  her  side. 

And  often  since,  when  most  alone, 
I  ponder  on  my  old  desire, 
But  never  hear  the  sweet-voiced  one, 
And  there  are  ruins  in  my  fire. 

20S 


THOMAS  McDONAGH 
He  shall  not  hear  the  bittern  cry 
In  the  wild  sky,  where  he  is  lain, 
Nor  voices  of  the  sweeter  birds 
Above  the  wailing  of  the  rain. 

Nor  shall  he  know  when  loud  March  blows 
Thro'  slanting  snows  her  fanfare  shrill, 
Blowing  to  flame  the  golden  cup 
Of  many  an  upset  daffodil. 

But  when  the  Dark  Cow  leaves  the  moor, 
And  pastures  poor  with  greedy  weeds, 
Perhaps  he'll  hear  her  low  at  morn 
Lifting  her  horn  in  pleasant  meads. 
206 


THE  WEDDING  MORNING 
Spread  the  feast,  and  let  there  be 
Such  music  heard  as  best  beseems 
A  king's  son  coming  from  the  sea 
To  wed  a  maiden  of  the  streams. 

Poets,  pale  for  long  ago, 

Bring  sweet  sounds  from  rock  and  flood. 

You  by  echo's  accent  know 

Where  the  water  is  and  wood. 

Harpers  whom  the  moths  of  Time 
Bent  and  wrinkled  dusty  brown, 
Her  chains  are  falling  with  a  chime, 
Sweet  as  bells  in  Heaven  town. 


208  THE  WEDDING  MORNING 

But,  harpers,  leave  your  harps  aside, 
And,  poets,  leave  awhile  your  dreams. 
The  storm  has  come  upon  the  tide 
And  Cathleen  weeps  among  her  streams. 


THE  BLACKBIRDS 
I  HEARD  the  Poor  Old  Woman  say : 
"  At  break  of  day  the  fowler  came, 
And  took  my  blackbirds  from  their  songs 
Who  loved  me  well  thro'  shame  and  blame. 

No  more  from  lovely  distances 
Their  songs  shall  bless  me  mile  by  mile, 
Nor  to  white  Ashbourne  call  me  down 
To  wear  my  crown  another  while. 

With  bended  flowers  the  angels  mark 
For  the  skylark  the  place  they  lie, 
From  there  its  little  family 
Shall  dip  their  wings  first  in  the  sky. 
209 


210  THE  BLACKBIRDS 

And  when  the  first  surprise  of  flight 
Sweet  songs  excite,  from  the  far  dawn 
Shall  there  come  blackbirds  loud  with  love, 
Sweet  echoes  of  the  singers  gone. 

But  in  the  lonely  hush  of  eve 
Weeping  I  grieve  the  silent  bills." 
I  heard  the  Poor  Old  Woman  say 
In  Derry  of  the  little  hills. 


THE  LURE 
I  SAW  night  leave  her  halos  down 
On  Mitylene's  dark  mountain  isle, 
The  silhouette  of  one  fair  town 
Like  broken  shadows  in  a  pile. 
And  in  the  farther  dawn  I  heard 
The  music  of  a  foreign  bird. 


In  fields  of  shady  angles  now 
I  stand  and  dream  in  the  half  dark: 
The  thrush  is  on  the  blossomed  bough, 
Above  the  echoes  sings  the  lark, 
And  little  rivers  drop  between 
Hills  fairer  than  dark  Mitylene. 


212  THE  LURE 

Yet  something  calls  me  with  no  voice 
And  wakes  sweet  echoes  in  my  mind; 
In  the  fair  country  of  my  choice 
Nor  Peace  nor  Love  again  I  find, 
Nor  anything  of  rest  I  know 
When  south-east  winds  are  blowing  low. 


THRO'  BOGAC  BAN 
I  MET  the  Silent  Wandering  Man, 
Thro'  Bogac  Ban  he  made  his  way, 
Humming  a  slow  old  Irish  tune, 
On  Joseph  Plunkett's  wedding  day. 

And  all  the  little  whispering  things 
That  love  the  springs  of  Bogac  Ban, 
Spread  some  new  rumour  round  the  dark 
And  turned  their  faces  from  the  dawn. 

My  hand  upon  my  harp  I  lay, 
I  cannot  say  what  things  I  know; 
To  meet  the  Silent  Wandering  Man 
Of  Bogac  Ban  once  more  I  go. 
213 


FATE 
LuGH  made  a  stir  in  the  air 
With  his  sword  of  cries, 
And  fairies  thro'  hidden  ways 
Came  from  the  skies, 
And  their  spells  withered  up  the  fair 
And  vanquished  the  wise. 

And  old  lame  Balor  came  down 
With  his  gorgon  eye 
Hidden  behind  its  lid, 
Old,  withered  and  dry. 
He  looked  on  the  wattle  town, 
And  the  town  passed  by. 
214 


FATE  ai5 

These  things  I  know  in  my  dreams, 
The  crying  sword  of  Lugh, 
And  Balor's  ancient  eye 
Searching  me  through, 
Withering  up  my  songs 
And  my  pipe  yet  new. 


EVENING  CLOUDS 
A  LITTLE  flock  of  clouds  go  down  to  rest 
In  some  blue  corner  off  the  moon's  highway, 
With  shepherd  winds  that  shook  them  in  the 

West 
To  borrowed  shapes  of  earth,  in  bright  array, 
Perhaps  to  weave  a  rainbow's  gay  festoons 
Around  the  lonesome  isle  which  Brooke  has 

made 
A  little  England  full  of  lovely  noons, 
Or  dot  it  with  his  country's  mountain  shade. 

Ah,  little  wanderers,  when  you  reach  that  isle 

Tell  him,  with  dripping  dew,  they  have  not 

failed, 

216 


EVENING  CLOUDS  217 

What  he  loved  most ;  for  late  I  roamed  awhile 
Thro'    English   fields    and   down   her    rivers 

sailed ; 
And  they  remember  him  with  beauty  caught 
From  old  desires  of  Oriental  Spring 
Heard  in  his  heart  with  singing  overwrought; 
And  still  on  Purley  Common  gooseboys  sing. 


SONG 
The  winds  are  scented  with  woods  after  rain, 
And  a  raindrop  shines  in  the  daisy's  eye. 
Shall  we  follow  the  swallow  again,  again. 
Ah!  little  yearning  thing,  you  and  I? 

You  and  I  to  the  South  again, 
And  heart !     Oh,  heart,  how  you  shall  sigh, 
For  the  kind  soft  wind  that  follows  the  rain. 
And  the  raindrop  shed  from  the  daisy's  eye. 


218 


THE  HERONS 
As  I  was  climbing  Ardan  Mor 
From  the  shore  of  Sheelan  lake, 
I  met  the  herons  coming  down 
Before  the  water's  wake. 

And  they  were  talking  in  their  flight 
Of  dreamy  ways  the  herons  go 
When  all  the  hills  are  withered  up 
Nor  any  waters  flow. 


2ig 


IN  THE  SHADOWS 
The  silent  music  of  the  flowers 

Wind-mingled  shall  not   fail  to  cheer 
The  lonely  hours 

When  I  no  more  am  here. 

Then  in  some  shady  willow  place 

Take  up  the  book  my  heart  has  made, 

And  hide  your  face 

Against  my  name  which  was  a  shade. 


220 


THE  SHIPS  OF  ARCADY 
Thro'  the  faintest  filigree 
Over  the  dim  waters  go  . 
Little  ships  of  Arcady 
When  the  morning  moon  is  low. 

I  can  hear  the  sailors'  song 
From  the  blue  edge  of  the  sea, 
Passing  like  the  lights  along 
Thro'  the  dusky  filigree. 

Then  where  moon  and  waters  meet 
Sail  by  sail  they  pass  away, 
With  little  friendly  winds  replete 
Blowing  from  the  breaking  day. 


222  THE  SHIPS  OF  ARCADY 

And  when  the  httle  ships  have  flown, 
Dreaming  still  of  Arcady 
I  look  across  the  waves,  alone 
In  the  misty  filigree. 


AFTER 

And  in  the  after  silences 
Of  flower-lit  distances  I'll  be, 
And  who  would  find  me  travels  far 
In  lands  unsung  of  minstrelsy. 
Strong  winds  shall  cross  my  secret  way, 
And  planet  mountains  hide  my  goal, 
I  shall  go  on  from  pass  to  pass. 
By  monstrous  rocks,  a  lonely  soul. 


223 


TO  ONE  WEEPING 
Maiden,  these  are  sacred  tears, 
Let  me  not  disturb  yotlr  grief ; 
Had  I  but  your  bosom's  fears 
I  should  weep,  nor  seek  relief. 

My  woe  is  a  silent  woe 
'Til  I  give  it  measured  rhyme, 
When  the  blackbird's  flute  is  low 
In  my  heart  at  singing  time. 


224 


A  DREAM  DANCE 
Maeve  held  a  ball  on  the  dun, 
Cuculain  and  Eimer  were  there, 
In  the  light  of  an  old  broken  moon 
I  was  dancing  with  Deirdre  the  fair. 

How  loud  was  the  laughter  of  Finn 
As  he  blundered  about  thro'  a  reel, 
Tripping  up  Caoilte  the  thin. 
Or  jostling  the  dreamy  Aleel. 

And  when  the  dance  ceased  for  a  song. 
How  sweet  was  the  singing  of  Fand, 
We  could  hear  her  far,  wandering  along, 
My  hand  in  that  beautiful  hand. 

225 


BY  FAUGHAN 
For  hills  and  woods  and  streams  unsung 
I  pipe  above  a  rippled  cove. 
And  here  the  weaver  autumn  hung 
Between  the  hills  a  wind  she  wove 
From  sounds  the  hills  remember  yet 
Of  purple  days  and  violet. 

The  hills  stand  up  to  trip  the  sky, 
Sea-misted,  and  along  the  tops 
Wing  after  wing  goes  summer  by, 
And  many  a  little  roadway  stops 
And  starts,  and  struggles  to  the  sea, 
Cutting  them  up  in  filigree. 
226 


BY  FAUGHAN  227 

Twixt  wind  and  silence  Faughan  flows, 
In  music  broken  over  rocks, 
Like  mingled  bells  the  poet  knows 
Ring  in  the  fields  of  Eastern  flocks. 
And  here  this  song  for  you  I  find 
Between  the  silence  and  the  wind. 


IN  SEPTEMBER 
Still  are  the  meadowlands,  and  still 
Ripens  the  upland  com, 
And  over  the  brown  gradual  hill 
The  moon  has  dipped  a  horn. 

The  voices  of  the  dear  unknown 
With  silent  hearts  now  call, 
My  rose  of  youth  is  overblown 
And  trembles  to  the  fall. 

My  song  forsakes  me  like  the  birds 
That  leave  the  rain  and  grey, 
I  hear  the  music  of  the  words 
My  lute  can  never  say. 
228 


LAST  SONGS 


TO  AN  OLD  QUILL  OF  LORD 
DUNSANY'S 

Before  you  leave  my  hands'  abuses 
To  lie  where  many  odd  things  meet  you, 
Neglected  darkling  of  the  Muses, 
I,  the  last  of  singers,  greet  you. 

Snug  in  some  white  wing  they  found  you, 
On  the  Common  bleak  and  muddy, 
Noisy  goslings  gobbling  round  you 
In  the  pools  of  sunset,  ruddy. 

Have  you  sighed  in  wings  untravelled 
For  the  heights  where  others  view  the 
Bluer  widths  of  heaven,  and  marvelled 
At  the  utmost  top  of  Beauty? 
231 


232        TO  AN  OLD  QUILL  OF  LORD  DUNSANY'S 
No!  it  cannot  be;  the  soul  you 
Sigh  with  craves  nor  begs  of  us. 
From  such  heights  a  poet  stole  you 
From  a  wing  of  Pegasus. 

You  have  been  where  gods  were  sleeping 
In  the  dawn  of  new  creations, 
Ere  they  woke  to  woman's  weeping 
At  the  broken  thrones  of  nations. 

You  have  seen  this  old  world  shattered 
By  old  gods  it  disappointed, 
Lying  up  in  darkness,  battered 
By  wild  comets,  unanointed. 

But  for  Beauty  unmolested 
Have  you  still  the  sighing  olden? 
I  know  mountains  healther-crested, 
Waters  white,  and  waters  golden. 


TO  AN  OLD  QUILL  OF  LORD  DUNSANY'S        233 
There  I'd  keep  you,  in  the  lowly 
Beauty-haunts  of  bird  and  poet, 
Sailing  in  a  wing,  the  holy 
Silences  of  lakes  below  it. 

But  I  leave  you  by  where  no  man 
Finds  you,  when  I  too  be  gone 
From  the  puddles  on  this  common 
Over  the  dark  Rubicon. 

Londonderry, 

September  i8th,  1916. 


TO  A  SPARROW 
Because  you  have  no  fear  to  mingle 
Wings  with  those  of  greater  part, 
So  like  me,  with  song  I  single 
Your  sweet  impudence  of  heart. 

And  when  prouder  feathers  go  where 
Summer  holds  her  leafy  show. 
You  still  come  to  us  from  nowhere 
Like  grey  leaves  across  the  snow. 

In  back  ways  where  odd  and  end  go 
To  your  meals  you  drop  down  sure, 
Knowing  every  broken  window 
Of  the  hospitable  poor. 
234 


TO  A  SPARROW  235 

There  is  no  bird  half  so  harmless, 
None  so  sweetly  rude  as  you, 
None  so  common  and  so  charmless, 
None  of  virtues  nude  as  you. 

But  for  all  your  faults  I  love  you. 
For  you  linger  with  us  still, 
Though  the  wintry  winds  reprove  you 
And  the  snow  is  on  the  hill. 

Londonderry, 

September  20th,  1916. 


OLD  CLO' 
I  WAS  just  coming  in  from  the  garden, 
Or  about  to  go  fishing  for  eels, 
And,  smiling,  I  asked  you  to  pardon 
My  boots  very  low  at  the  heels. 
And  I  thought  that  you  never  would  go, 
As  you  stood  in  the  doorway  ajar, 
For  my  heart  would  keep  saying,  "  Old  Clo*, 
You're  found  out  at  last  as  you  are." 

I  was  almost  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
That  I  was  the  quarry  you  sought, 
For  was  I  not  bred  in  a  college 
And  reared  in  a  mansion,  you  thought. 
236 


OLD  CLO'  237 

And  now  in  the  latest  style  cut 
With  fortune  more  kinder  I  go 
To  welcome  you  half-ways.     Ah!  but 
I  was  nearer  the  gods  when  **  Old  Clo*." 


YOUTH 
She  paved  the  way  with  perfume  sweet 
Of  flowers  that  moved  Hke  winds  alight, 
And  never  weary  grew  my  feet 
Wandering  through  the  spring's  delight. 

She  dropped  her  sweet  fife  to  her  lips 
And  lured  me  with  her  melodies, 
To  where  the  great  big  wandering  ships 
Put  out  into  the  peaceful  seas. 

But  when  the  year  grew  chill  and  brown, 
And  all  the  wings  of  Summer  flown, 
Within  the  tumult  of   a  town 
She  left  me  to  grow  old  alone. 
238 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN 
Hunger  points  a  bony  finger 
To  the  workhouse  on  the  hill, 
But  the  little  children  linger 
While  there's  flowers  to  gather  still 
For  my  sunny  window  sill. 

In  my  hands  I  take  their  faces, 
Smiling  to  my  smiles  they  run. 
Would  that  I  could  take  their  places 
Where  the  murky  bye-ways  shun 
The  benedictions  of  the  sun. 

How  they  laugh  and  sing  returning 
Lightly  on  their  secret  way. 
239 


240  THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN 

While  I  listen  in  my  yearning 
Their  laughter  fills  the   windy  day 
With  gladness,  youth  and  May. 


AUTUMN 
Now  leafy  winds  are  blowing  cold, 
And  South  by  West  the  sun  goes  down, 
A  quiet  huddles  up  the  fold 
In  sheltered  corners  of  the  brown. 

Like  scattered  fire  the  wild  fruit  strews 
The  ground  beneath  the  blowing  tree, 
And  there  the  busy  squirrel  hews 
His  deep  and  secret  granary. 

And  when  the  night  comes  starry  clear, 
The  lonely  quail  complains  beside 
The  glistening  waters  on  the  mere 
Where  widowed  Beauties  yet  abide. 
241 


242  AUTUMN 

And  I,  too,  make  my  own  complaint 

Upon  a  reed  I  plucked  in  June, 

And  love  to  hear  it  echoed  faint 

Upon  another  heart  in  tune. 

Londonderry, 

September  2gth,  jgiS. 


IRELAND 
I  CALLED  you  by  sweet  names  by  wood  and 

linn. 
You  answered  not  because  my  voice  was  new, 
And  you  were  listening  for  the  hounds  of  Finn 
And  the  long  hosts  of  Lugh. 

And  so,  I  came  unto  a  windy  height 
And  cried  my  sorrow,  but  you  heard  no  wind. 
For  you  were  listening  to  small  ships  in  flight, 
And  the  wail  on  hills  behind. 

And  then  I  left  you,  wandering  the  war 
Armed  with  will,  from  distant  goal  to  goal. 
To  find  you  at  the  last  free  as  of  yore. 
Or  die  to  save  your  soul. 
243 


^44  IRELAND 

And  then  you  called  to  us  from  far  and  near 

To  bring  your  crown  from  out  the  deeps  of 

time, 
It  is  my  grief  your  voice  I  couldn't  hear 
In  such  a  distant  clime. 


LADY  FAIR 
Lady  fair,  have  we  not  met 
In  our  lives  elsewhere? 
Darkling  in  my  mind  to-night 
Faint  fair  faces  dare 
Memory's  old  unfaithfulness 
To  what  was  true  and  fair. 
Long  of  memory  is  Regret, 
But  what  Regret  has  taken  flight 
Through  my  memory's  silences? 
Lo!     I  turn  it  to  the  light. 
'Twas  but  a  pleasure  in  distress, 
Too  faint  and  far  off  for  redress. 
But  some  light  glancing  in  your  hair 
245 


246  LADY  FAIR 

And  in  the  liquid  of  your  eyes 
Seem  to  murmur  old  good-byes 
In  our  lives  elsewhere. 

Have  we  not  met,  Lady  fair? 

Londonderry, 

October  27th,  jgi6. 


AT  A  POET'S  GRAVE 
When  I  leave  down  this  pipe  my  friend 
And  sleep  with  flower  I  loved,  apart, 
My  songs  shall  rise  in  wilding  things 
Whose  roots  are  in  my  heart. 

And  here  where  that  sweet  poet  sleeps 

I  hear  the  songs  he  left  unsung, 

When  winds  are  fluttering  the  flowers 

And  summer-bells  are  rung. 
November,  jgi6. 


247 


AFTER  COURT  MARTIAL 
My  mind  is  not  my  mind,  therefore 
I  take  no  heed  of  what  men  say, 
I  lived  ten  thousand  years  before 
God  cursed  the  town  of  Nineveh. 

The  Present  is  a  dream  I  see 
Of  horror  and  loud  sufferings. 
At  dawn  a  bird  will  waken  me 
Unto  my  place  among  the  kings. 

And  though  men  called  me  a  vile  name. 
And  all  my  dream  companions  gone, 
Tis  I  the  soldier  bears  the  shame, 
Not  I  the  king  of  Babylon. 
248 


A  MOTHER'S  SONG 
Little  ships  of  whitest  pearl 
With  sailors  who  were  ancient  kings, 
Come  over  the  sea  when  my  little  girl 
Sings. 

And  if  my  little  girl  should  weep, 
Little  ships  with  torn  sails 
Go  headlong  down  among  the  deep 
Whales. 
November,  Jpi6. 


249 


AT  CURRABWEE 
Every  night  at  Currabwee 
Little  men  with  leather  hats 
Mend  the  boots  of  Faery 
From  the  tough  wings  of  the  bats. 
So  my  mother  told  to  me, 
And  she  is  wise  you  will  agree. 

Louder  than  a  cricket's  wing 

All  night  long  their  hammer's  glee 

Times  the  merry  songs  they  sing 

Of  Ireland  glorious  and  free. 

So  I  heard  Joseph  Plunkett  say, 

You  know  he  heard  them  but  last  May. 

And  when  the  night  is  very  cold 
They  warm  their  hands  against  the  light 
250 


AT  CURRABWEE  251 

Of  Stars  that  make  the  waters  gold 
Where  they  are  labouring  all  the  night. 
So  Pearse  said,  and  he  knew  the  truth, 
Among  the  stars  he  spent  his  youth. 

And  I,  myself,  have  often  heard 
Their  singing  as  the  stars  went  by, 
For  am  I  not  of  those  who  reared 
The  banner  of  old  Ireland  high, 
From  Dublin  town  to  Turkey's  shores, 
And  where  the  Vardar  loudly  roars? 
December,  J916. 


SONG-TIME  IS  OVER 
I  WILL  come  no  more  awhile, 

Song-time  is  over. 
A  fire  is  burning  in  my  heart, 

I  was  ever  a  rover. 

You  will  hear  me  no  more  awhile, 

The  birds  are  dumb, 
And  a  voice  in  the  distance  calls 
"  Come,"  and  "  Come." 
December  J3th,  J916. 


25^ 


UNA  BAWN 
Una  Bawn,  the  days  are  long, 
And  the  seas  I  cross  are  wide, 
I  must  go  when  Ireland  needs, 
And  you  must  bide. 

And  should  I  not  return  to  you 
When  the  sails  are  on  the  tide, 
*Tis  you  will  find  the  days  so  long, 
Una  Bawn,  and  I  must  bide. 
December  13th,  jpi6. 


2S3 


SPRING  LOVE 
I  SAW  her  coming  through  the  flowery  grass, 
Round  her  swift  ankles  butterfly  and  bee 
Blent  loud  and  silent  wings;  I  saw  her  pass 
Where  foam-bows  shivered  on  the  sunny  sea. 

Then  came  the  swallow  crowding  up  the  dawn, 
And  cuckoo-echoes  filled  the  dewy  South. 
I  left  my  love  upon  the  hill,  alone, 
My  last  kiss  burning  on  her  lovely  mouth. 
B.E.F. —  December  26th,  1916. 


254 


SOLILOQUY 
When  I  was  young  I  had  a  care 
Lest  I  should  cheat  me  of  my  share 
Of  that  which  makes  it  sweet  to  strive 
For  life,  and  dying  still  survive, 
A  name  in  sunshine  written  higher 
Than  lark  or  poet  dare  aspire. 

But  I  grew  weary  doing  well, 
Besides,  'twas  sweeter  in  that  hell, 
Down  with  the  loud  banditti  people 
Who  robbed  the  orchards,  climbed  the  steeple 
For  jackdaws'  eggs  and  made  the  cock 
Crow  ere  'twas  daylight  on  the  clock. 
I  was  so  very  bad  the  neighbours 
Spoke  of  me  at  their  daily  labours. 
255 


256  SOLILOQUY 

And  now  I'm  drinking  wine  in  France, 
The  helpless  child  of  circumstance. 
To-morrow  will  be  loud  with  war, 
How  will  I  be  accounted  for? 

It  is  too  late  now  to  retrieve 
A  fallen  dream,  too  late  to  grieve 
A  name  unmade,  but  not  too  late 
To  thank  the  gods  for  what  is  great; 
A  keen-edged  sword,  a  soldier's  heart. 
Is  greater  than  a  poet's  art. 
And  greater  than  a  poet's  fame 
A  little  grave  that  has  no  name. 


DAWN 
Quiet  miles  of  golden  sky, 
And  in  my  heart  a  sudden  flower. 
I  want  to  clap  my  hands  and  cry 
For  Beauty  in  her  secret  bower. 

Quiet  golden  miles  of  dawn  — 
Smiling  all  the  East  along; 
And  in  my  heart  night  fully  blown, 
A  little  rose-bud  of  a  song. 


257 


CEOL  SIDHEi 
When  May  is  here,  and  every  mom 
Is  dappled  with  pied  bells, 
And  dewdrops  glance  along  the  thorn 
And  wings  flash  in  the  dells, 
I  take  my  pipe  and  play  a  tune 
Of  dreams,  a  whispered  melody, 
For  feet  that  dance  beneath  the  moon 
In  fairy  jollity. 

And  when  the  pastoral  hills  are  grey 
And  the  dim  stars  are  spread, 
A  scamper  fills  the  grass  like  play 
Of  feet  where  fairies  tread. 

1  Fairy  music. 
258 


CEOL  SIDHE  259 

And  many  a  little  whispering  thing 
Is  calling  to  the  Shee. 
The  dewy  bells  of  evening  ring, 
And  all  is  melody. 

France, 

December  zgth,  1916. 


THE  RUSHES 
The  rushes  nod  by  the  river 
As  the  winds  on  the  loud  waves  go, 
And  the  things  they  nod  of  are  many, 
For  it's  many  the  secret  they  know. 

And  I  think  they  are  wise  as  the  fairies 
Who  lived  ere  the  hills  were  high. 
They  nod  so  grave  by  the  river 
To  everyone  passing  by. 

If  they  would  tell  me  their  secrets 
I  would  go  by  a  hidden  way, 
To  the  rath  when  the  moon  retiring 
Dips  dim  horns  into  the  gray. 
260 


THE  RUSHES  261 

And  a  fairy-girl  out  of  Leinster 
In  a  long  dance  I  should  meet, 
My  heart  to  her  heart  beating, 
My  feet  in  rhyme  with  her  feet. 

France, 

January  6th,  1917. 


THE  DEAD  KINGS 
All  the  dead  kings  came  to  me 
At  Rosnaree,  \vhere  I  was  dreaming. 
A  few  stars  glimmered  through  the  morn, 
And  down  the  thorn  the  dews  were  streaming. 

And  every  dead  king  had  a  story 

Of  ancient  glory,  sweetly  told. 

It  was  too  early  for  the  lark, 

But  the  starry  dark  had  tints  of  gold. 

I  listened  to  the  sorrows  three 
Of  that  Eire  passed  into  song. 
A  cock  crowed  near  a  hazel  croft, 
And  up  aloft  dim  larks  winged  strong. 
263 


THE  DEAD  KINGS  263 

And  I,  too,  told  the  kings  a  story 
Of  later  glory,  her  fourth  sorrow: 
There  was  a  sound  like  moving  shields 
In  high  green  fields  and  the  lowland  furrow. 

And  one  said :     "  We  who  yet  are  kings 
Have  heard  these  things  lamenting  inly." 
Sweet  music  flowed  from  many  a  bill 
And  on  the  hill  the  morn  stood  queenly. 

And  one  said :     "  Over  is  the  singing, 
And  bell  bough  ringing,  whence  we  come; 
With  heavy  hearts  we'll  tread  the  shadows, 
In  honey  meadows  birds  are  dumb." 

And  one  said :     "  Since  the  poets  perished 
And  all  they  cherisihed  in  the  way. 
Their  thoughts  unsung,  like  petal  showers 
Inflame  the  hours  of  blue  and  gray." 


264  THE  DEAD  KINGS 

And  one  said :     "  A  loud  tramp  of  men 

We'll  hear  again  at  Rosnaree." 

A  bomb  burst  near  me  where  I  lay. 

I  woke,  'twas  day  in  Picardy. 

France, 

January  7th,  191/. 


IN  FRANCE 

The  silence  of  maternal  hills 

Is  round  me  in  my  evening  dreams; 

And  round  me  music-making  bills 

And  mingling  waves  of  pastoral  streams. 

Whatever  way  I  turn  I  find 
The  path  is  old  unto  me  still. 
The  hills  of  home  are  in  my  mind. 
And  there  I  wander  as  I  will. 
February  3rd,  1917. 


26r> 


HAD  I  A  GOLDEN  POUND 
(after  the  Irish) 
Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend, 
My  love  should  mend  and  sew  no  more. 
And  I  would  buy  her  a  little  quern, 
Easy  to  turn  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

And  for  her  windows  curtains  white, 
With  birds  in  flight  and  flowers  in  bloom, 
To  face  with  pride  the  road  to  town, 
And  mellow  down  her  sunlit  room. 

And  with  the  silver  change  we'd  prove 
The  truth  of  Love  to  life's  own  end, 
With  hearts  the  years  could  but  embolden. 
Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend. 

February  5th,  J917. 

266 


FAIRIES 
Maiden -Poet,  come  with  me 
To  the  heaped  up  cairn  of  Maeve, 
And  there  we'll  dance  a  fairy  dance 
Upon  a  fairy's  grave. 

In  and  out  among  the  trees, 
Filling  all  the  night  with  sound, 
The  morning,  strung  upon  her  star, 
Shall  chase  us  round  and  round. 

What  are  we  but  fairies  too, 
Living  but  in  dreams  alone. 
Or,  at  the  most,  but  children  still, 
Innocent  and  overgrown? 

February  6th,  jgi/. 

267 


IN  A  CAFE 
Kiss  the  maid  and  pass  her  round, 
Lips  like  hers  were  made  for  many. 
Our  loves  are  far  from  us  to-night, 
But  these  red  lips  are  sweet  as  any. 

Let  no  empty  glass  be  seen 

Aloof  from  our  good  table's  sparkle, 

At  the  acme  of  our  cheer 

Here  are  francs  to  keep  the  circle. 

They  are  far  who  miss  us  most  — 
Sip  and  kiss  —  how  well  we  love  them. 
Battling  through  the  world  to  keep 

Their  hearts  at  peace,  their  God  above  them. 

February  nth,  J91/. 

268 


SPRING 
Once  more  the  lark  with  song  and  speed 
Cleaves  through  the  dawn,  his  hurried  bars 
Fall,  like  the  flute  of  Ganymede 
Twirling  and  whistling  from  the  stars. 

The  primrose  and  the  daffodil 
Surprise  the  valleys,  and  wild  thyme 
Is  sweet  on  every  little  hill, 
When  lambs  come  down  at  folding  time. 

In  every  wild  place  now  is  heard 
The  magpie's  noisy  house,  and  through 
The  mingled  tunes  of  many  a  bird 
The  ruffled  wood-dove's  gentle  coo. 
269 


270  SPRING 

Sweet  by  the  river's  noisy  brink 
The  water-lily  bursts  her  crown, 
The  kingfisher  comes  down  to  drink 
Like  rainbow  jewels   falling  down. 

And  when  the  blue  and  grey  entwine 
The  daisy  shuts  her  golden  eye, 
And  peace  wraps  all  those  hills  of  mine 
Safe  in  my  dearest  memory. 

France, 

March  8th,  1917. 


PAN 
He  knows  the  safe  ways  and  unsafe 
And  he  will  lead  the  lambs  to  fold, 
Gathering  them  with  his  merry  pipe, 
The  gentle  and  the  overbold. 

He  counts  them  over  one  by  one, 
And  leads  them  back  by  cliff  and  steep. 
To  grassy  hills  where  dawn  is  wide, 
And  they  may  run  and  skip  and  leap. 

And  just  because  he  loves  the  lambs 
He  settles  tihem  for  rest  at  noon, 
And  plays  them  on  his  oaten  pipe 
The  very  wonder  of  a  tune. 

France, 

March  Jith,  J917. 

271 


WITH  FLOWERS 

These  have  more  language  than  my  song, 
Take  them  and  let  them  speak  for  me. 
I  whispered  them  a  secret  thing 
Down  the  green  lanes  of  Allary. 

You  shall  remember  quiet  ways 
Watching  them  fade,  and  quiet  eyes, 
And  two  hearts  given  up  to  love, 
A  foolish  and  an  overwise. 

France, 

April,  I917' 


272 


THE  FIND 
I  TOOK  a  reed  and  blew  a  tune, 
And  sweet  it  was  and  very  clear 
To  be  about  a  little  thing 
That  only  few  hold  dear. 

Three  times  the  cuckoo  named  himself, 
But  nothing  heard  him  on  the  hill, 
Where  I  was  piping  like  an  elf 
The  air  was  very  still. 

'Twas  all  about  a  little  thing 
I  made  a  mystery  of  sound, 
I  found  it  in  a  fairy  ring 
Upon  a  fairy  mound. 

June  2nd,  1917. 

273 


A  FAIRY  HUNT 
Who  would  hear  the  fairy  horn 
CaUing  all  the  hounds  of  Finn 
Must  be  in  a  lark's  nest  born 
When  the  moon  is  very  thin. 

I  who  'have  the  gift  can  hear 
Hounds  and  horn  and  tally  ho, 
And  the  tongue  of  Bran  as  clear 
As  Christmas  bells  across  the  snow. 

And  beside  my  secret  place 
Hurries  by  the  fairy  fox, 
With  the  moonrise  on  his  face, 
Up  and  down  the  mossy  rocks. 
274 


A  FAIRY  HUNT 
Then  the  music  of  a  horn 
And  the  flash  of  scarlet  men, 
Thick  as  poppies  in  the  corn 
All  across  the  dusky  glen. 

Oh!  the  mad  delight  of  chase! 
Oh!  the  shouting  and  the  cheer! 
Many  an  owl  doth  leave  his  place 
In  the  dusty  tree  to  hear. 


275 


TO  ONE  WHO  COMES  NOW  AND 

THEN 

When  you  come  in,  it  seems  a  brighter  fire 
Crackles  upon  the  hearth  invitingly, 
The  household  routine  which  was  wont  to  tire 
Grows  full  of  novelty. 

You  sit  upon  our  home-upholstered  chair 
And  talk  of  matters  wonderful  and  strange. 
Of  books,  and  travel,  customs  old  which  dare 
The  gods  of  Time  and  Change. 

Till  we  with  inner  word  our  care  refute 
Laughing  that  this  our  bosoms  yet  assails. 
While  there  are  maidens  dancing  to  a  flute 
In  Andalusian  vales. 

276 


TO  ONE  WHO  COMES  NOW  AND  THEN        277 
And  sometimes  from  my  shelf  of  poems  you 

take 
And  secret  meanings  to  our  hearts  disclose, 
As  when  the  winds  of  June  the  mid  bush 

shake 
We  see  the  hidden  rose. 


And  when  the  shadows  muster,  and  each  tree 
A  moment  flutters,  full  of  shutting  wings, 
You  take  the  fiddle  and  mysteriously 
Wake  wonders  on  the  strings. 

And  in  my  garden,  grey  with  misty  flowers, 
Low  echoes  fainter  than  a  beetle's  horn 
Fill  ail  the  comers  with  it,  like  sweet  showers 
Of  bells,  in  the  owl's  morn. 


278  TO  ONE  WHO  COMES  NOW  AND  THEN 
Come  often,  friend,  with  welcome  and  surprise 
We'll  greet  you   from  the  sea  or  from  the 

town; 
Come  when  you  like  and  from  whatever  skies 
Above  you  smile  or  frown. 

Belgium, 

July  22nd,  1917. 


THE  SYLPH 
I  SAW  you  and  I  named  a  flower 
That  lights  with  blue  a  woodland  space, 
I  named  a  bird  of  the  red  hour 
And  a  hidden  fairy  place. 

And  then  I  saw  you  not,  and  knew 
Dead  leaves  were  whirling  down  the  mist, 
And  something  lost  was  crying  through 
An  evening  of  amethyst. 


279 


HOME 

A  BURST  of  sudden  wings  at  dawn, 
Faint  voices  in  a  dreamy  noon, 
Evenings  of  mist  and  murmurings, 
And  nights  with  rainbows  of  the  moon. 

And  through  these  things  a  wood-way  dim, 
And  waters  dim,  and  slow  sheep  seen 
On  uphill  paths  that  wind  away 
Through  summer  sounds  and  harvest  green. 

This  is  a  song  a  robin  sang 
This  morning  on  a  broken  tree, 
It  was  about  the  little  fields 
That  call  across  the  world  to  me. 

Belgium, 

July,  1917. 

280 


THE  LANAWN  SHEE 
Powdered  and  perfumed  the  full  bee 
Winged  heavily  across  the  clover, 
And  where  the  hills  were  dim  with  dew, 
Purple  and  blue  the  west  leaned  over. 

A  willow  spray  dipped  in  the  stream, 
Moving  a  gleam  of  silver  ringing, 
And  by  a  finny  creek  a  maid 
Filled  all  the  shade  with  softest  singing. 

Listening,  my  heart  and  soul  at  strife. 
On  the  edge  of  life  I  seemed  to  hover. 
For  I  knew  my  love  had  come  at  last. 
That  my  joy  was  past  and  my  gladness  over. 
281 


282  THE  LANAWN  SHEE 

I  tiptoed  gently  up  and  stooped 
Above  her  looped  and  shining  tresses, 
And  asked  her  of  her  kin  and  name, 
And  why  she  came  from  fairy  places. 

She  told  me  of  a  sunny  coast 
Beyond  the  most  adventurous  sailor, 
Where  she  had  spent  a  thousand  years 
Out  of  the  fears  that  now  assail  her. 

And  there,  she  told  me,  honey  drops 
Out  of  the  tops  of  ash  and  willow, 
And  in  the  mellow  shadow  Sleep 
Doth  sweetly  keep  her  poppy  pillow. 

Nor  Autumn  with  her  brown  line  marks 
The  time  of  larks,  the  length  of  roses, 
But  song-time  there  is  over  never 
Nor  flower-time  ever,  ever  closes. 


THE  LANAWN  SHEE  283 

And  wildly  through  uncurling  ferns 
Fast  water  turns  down  valleys  singing, 
Filling  with  scented  winds  the  dales, 
Setting  the  bells  of  sleep  a-ringing. 

And  when  the  thin  moon  lowly  sinks, 
Through  cloudy  chinks  a  silver  glory 
Lingers  upon  the  left  of  night 
Till  dawn  delights  the  meadows  hoary. 

And  by  the  lakes  the  skies  are  white, 
(Oh,  the  delight!)  when  swans  are  coming, 
Among  the  flowers  sweet  joy-bells  peal, 
And  quick  bees  wheel  in  drowsy  humming. 

The  squirrel  leaves  her  dusty  house 
And  in  the  boughs  makes  fearless  gambol, 
And,  falling  down  in  fire-drops,  red. 
The  fruit  is  shed  from  every  bramble. 


284  THE  LANAWN  SHEE 

Then,  gathered  all  about  the  trees 
Glad  galaxies  of  youth  are  dancing, 
Treading  the  perfume  of  the  flowers, 
Filling  the  hours  with  mazy  glancing. 

And  when  the  dance  is  done,  the  trees 

Are  left  to  Peace  and  the  brown  woodpecker, 

And  on  the  western  slopes  of  sky 

The  day's  blue  eye  begins  to  flicker. 

But  at  the  sighing  of  the  leaves, 
When  all  earth  grieves  for  lights  departed 
An  ancient  and  a  sad  desire 
Steals  in  to  tire  the  human-hearted. 

No  fairy  aid  can  save  them  now 
Nor  turn  their  prow  upon  the  ocean, 
The  hundred  years  that  missed  each  heart 
Above  them  start  their  wheels  in  motion. 


THE  LANAWN  SHEE  26$ 

And  so  our  loves  are  lost,  she  sighed, 
And  far  and  wide  we  seek  new  treasure, 
For  who  on  Time  or  Timeless  hills 
Can  live  the  ills  of  loveless  leisure? 

("  Fairer  than  Usna's  youngest  son, 
O,  my  poor  one,  what  flower-bed  holds  you? 
Or,  wrecked  upon  the  shores  of  home, 
What  wave  of  foam  with  white  enfolds  you? 

"  You  rode  with  kings  on  hills  of  green, 
And  lovely  queens  have  served  you  banquet, 
Sweet  wine  from  berries  bruised  they  brought 
And  shyly  sought  the  lips  which  drank  it. 

"  But  in  your  dim  grave  of  the  sea 
There  shall  not  be  a  friend  to  love  you. 
And  ever  heedless  of  your  loss 
The  earth  ships  cross  the  storms  above  you. 


286  THE  LANAWN  SHEE 

"  And  still  the  chase  goes  on,  and  still 

The  wine  shall  spill,  and  vacant  places 

Be  given  over  to  the  new 

As  love  untrue  keeps  changing  faces. 

"  And  I  must  wander  with  my  song 

Far  from  the  young  till  Love  returning, 

Brings  me  the  beautiful  reward 

Of  some  heart  stirred  by  my  long  yearning.") 

Friend,  have  you  heard  a  bird  lament 
When  sleet  is  sent  for  April  weather? 
As  beautiful  she  told  her  grief. 
As  down  through  leaf  and  flower  I  led  her. 

And  friend,  could  I  remain  unstirred 
Without  a  word  for  such  a  sorrow? 
Say,  can  the  lark  forget  the  cloud 
When  poppies  shroud  the  seeded  furrow? 


THE  LANAWN  SHEE  287 

Like  a  poor  widow  whose  late  grief 
Seeks  for  relief  in  lonely  bye  ways, 
The  moon,  companionless  and  dim. 
Took  her  dull  rim  through  starless  highways. 

I  was  too  weak  with  dreams  to  feel 
Enchantment  steal  with  guilt  upon  me, 
She  slipped,  a  flower  upon  the  wind. 
And  laughed  to  find  how  she  had  won  me. 

From  hill  to  hill,  from  land  to  land. 
Her  lovely  hand  is  beckoning  for  me, 
I  follow  on  through  dangerous  zones. 
Cross  dead  men's  bones  and  oceans  stormy. 

Some  day  I  know  she'll  wait  at  last 
And  lock  me  fast  in  white  embraces. 
And  down  mysterious  ways  of  love 
We  two  shall  move  to  fairy  places. 

Belgium, 

July,  igi7. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JAN  6      I93ig5 

BBTDiMIRC 
•JUN     2  1953 

WY  221971 


jun 


\^ 


Form  L-9-15m-7,'31 


yC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


.---.-.  JIlllllllllLl  ill  Illlli||)||||),i||| 

A     000  864  336     3 


